Through the Puddles of Time
by SyrupylikeBreakfastinMontag
Summary: A world where Ariana never died, where Dumbledore never had any reason to rethink his partnership with Grindelwald. A world where Voldemort was never defeated, where there never was a Boy-Who-Lived. Harry never wanted any part of this other world, but he has no choice. They need him. How can he turn them away? But the Tom Riddle of this world is watching. HP/TMR TMR/HP Slash
1. Chapter 1

Through the Puddles of Time

Chapter One

*Author's Note: Hi, everyone! I know it's been a while since my last story, but I have been overwhelmed with school work. Now that it's summer, though, I shall have plenty of time for quick updates here. This is my new multi-chapter story for the pairing Harry Potter/Tom Marvolo Riddle. It will contain mature content such as violence, sexual situations, and swear words. I hope you guys enjoy it!*

Night hunkers down over London, thick and heavy as sludge. It settles onto the city's rooftops, leaks in through its open windows, and slithers beneath closed doors. The night watches. The night waits. It is not disappointed.

Moments before, rain oozed from the midnight sky, but for now the rain has stopped. Only puddles remain, coating the street in reflective pools. The water looks like ink, black and glossy, as ominous as the sky above. The crisp scent of rain on asphalt still hangs in the air, a cleansing smell, but nothing about this city is clean. Not anymore.

The figures run down the alleyway, feet skidding, sliding across slick pavement. A man and a woman. They run as though death himself chases them, movements clumsy and panicked. But they aren't young anymore. Their movements are slow, old age clinging to their limbs, causing their muscles to ache and spasm. The woman seems to be ill as well. Sweat drips from her forehead, hot, feverish droplets from a fire burning beneath her skin. Her body shakes with each step, tremors running beneath wrinkled flesh. But she presses on, anyway. Her face, clearly that of a once handsome woman, is scrunched up in determination. Her brown eyes are slits of concentration. She is panting. She stumbles.

The man catches her, grabbing her elbow firmly to help stabilize her. Then he drags her on again. They can't afford to stop. Not now. Not with what they know is chasing them. The man seems to be the older of the two. Wrinkles crease his face into a sea of fine lines, crows' feet pointing like arrows at bright blue irises. But he seems to be the stronger of the pair despite his age. While the woman's limbs are thin and frail, more like bird bones than human arms and legs, the man is broad and stocky. His shoulders are wide. His legs are thick. Muscles cord beneath tan skin. He watches the woman nervously as they run, half-dragging, half-carrying her down the curving sidewalk. He hopes she will make it.

And then, behind the couple, just far enough down the street so as to still be invisible, people call out. A chorus of voices, mostly male, shout from the shadows. Their words echo between the dark houses, ricocheting off plaster walls. Sinister voices. Laughing voices. Jeering, howling, taunting. And they're getting closer.

The man tries to run faster, pushing the woman forwards as best he can, but her body has reached its limit. She stumbles again, and this time he has no choice but to either carry her or leave her behind. He hoists her up into his arms. Her head falls against his chest, too heavy for her weary neck to support any longer. Her skin is so hot beneath his fingertips. She's burning, her body melting from the inside out. But he can't stop. He runs.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Left foot.

Right—

He falters, lurching dangerously sideways towards the pavement. He's only just able to regain his balance before he hits the ground. He can't do this, can't run fast enough and carry her at the same time. His strength, the strength which has saved them both so many times before, is running out. He looks down, meets her brown eyes.

The voices behind them grow louder, and now words can be made out. Threats, insults, promises. Horrible words. Soon, they will be upon them.

The woman's flesh is on fire, but her eyes are calm as she looks up into the man's blue gaze.

"Ariana, I can't—" he begins, but she cuts him off, her voice smooth and unworried.

"Don't worry, Aberforth," she whispers. "It's coming. I can feel it. I can't contain it any longer. You should put me down now. Put me down and get back, as quickly as possible. Now! Put me down, now!" Her tone shifts then, filling with a horrible urgency. Aberforth doesn't hesitate. He lowers Ariana to the ground, gently cradling her head as he settles it onto the pavement. Then he leaps away from her, running up the steps of one of the neighboring houses to take shelter in its doorway.

Ariana tilts her head, allowing it to fall sideways until one of her cheeks is pressed against the damp sidewalk. Down the street, she can see the light from their wands illuminating the fronts of the houses. It glints in the puddles, replicated over and over again on the water's surface. But for now, they are just wand light and words. She hopes they will hurry. It's coming, coming now, and she can't stop it. She never could. She hopes it will do the right thing, attack the right people, but all she can do is hope. It rises in her belly, churning the contents of her stomach until she thinks she'll be sick. It burns, tightening her insides, causing her muscles to convulse and shudder. Then it's in her throat, her mouth, pouring out of her.

Her vision is going black, flickering out from the edges inwards, but she can see them round the corner. Their faces are jack-o-lanterns, leering, sadistic and exaggerated. She is relieved. They are within range. And then everything is dark and the magic explodes from her like shooting stars.

Aberforth watches from the doorway. He watches and he prays that the magic will spare him. There have been times in the past when it has not, times when it has hurt him, searing his flesh and sending pain cascading through his every nerve. Times when he has feared it might kill him, burn him up until nothing remains. But for now the magic seems uninterested in Aberforth. It shoots down the alleyway like a tidal wave, washing away everything in its path. It takes their smiles with it, tearing them up until they have nothing to smile with anymore. Aberforth forces himself not to look away. But he wants to. Even for someone who's seen as much war and torture as he has, this is horrible. The magic is primal, too primal even to be cruel. It has no intention, only instinct. It kills. It rips. It tears until the streets ooze red. There's a reason magic needs witches and wizards, why intent and words have to govern it and keep it in check. Magic without someone to control it is a terrible thing to behold. The idea that this magic, this deep, primitive force, comes from his baby sister is unfathomable. She is so sweet, so gentle, even after everything she's been through. Even now. But this darkness is a part of her.

It consumes the men. Then, as though bored, a child who has just finished off the last of its candy, the magic vanishes as though it never existed. Except they are dead.

Aberforth exhales at last, his body sagging with relief. He is alive. She is alive. It spared him. He leaves the cover of the doorway, teetering out into the street. Tenderly, he leans down and cradles the back of Ariana's head in his palm. He waits. He doesn't have to wait long. Soon enough, Ariana's eyes flicker open. For a moment she seems dazed, confused about where she is. Then she focuses in on Aberforth's face.

"Are you alright?" she asks. Her voice is thin, as though she has just inhaled a lot of smoke. Aberforth just nods.

"And them?"

"Dead," Aberforth says. "But more will come. We've only bought ourselves a little time." Ariana nods, struggling to sit up. Aberforth hurries to help, grabbing her shoulders to support her. She's panting, her breathing quick and shallow. Each exhale is accompanied by a rattling gurgle that makes Aberforth frown with worry.

"I know," wheezes Ariana. "But a little time may be all we need. I had another vision, Aberforth. A strong one this time. It was so clear, so real. I thought I could touch it. There was even a smell. Something fresh, maybe some kind of flower, I think. Jasmine, or honeysuckle maybe."

"What did you see?" asks Aberforth.

"I saw him," Ariana replies, and as she meets Aberforth's worried look her gaze is sharp and clear. "I saw the boy who's going to save us. He was so young, just a teenager, I think, by the look of him, but he knows how to stop them. Somehow, I just know. He has done it before, in their world, I think."

"In their world?" Aberforth repeats. He says the words slowly, as though rolling them around on his tongue to see what they taste like. "But how can some boy from another fucking world save us? How could he even get here? I have never heard of a way to cross between the worlds. No one even knows just how many other worlds are out there. This is bollocks."

"It's getting thin, the border," says Ariana. "I don't know why. But it's beginning to break. Soon, he'll be able to get through."

"But why would some kid from another world help us? Why would he care? If he's got any wits about him he'll want to stay the hell away from this bloody place. Live a little longer."

Ariana's pale fingers stretch through the air, as thin and white as a spider's web. She grips Aberforth's shoulder, giving him a comforting squeeze. But her muscles are still weak, her fingers limp and frail. He can barely feel it.

"Because he is a hero," she says softly. "It's in his nature. He won't be able to say no and just leave us like this."

"A hero?" scoffs Aberforth skeptically. "Not too many of those wandering around these days."

"You don't do yourself enough credit," murmurs Ariana, a tender smile lighting up her face. "But he is rare, I think. From what I saw, there's no one in this world quite like him."

-X-X-X-

"Harry! Hurry up, we're going to be late! And I don't fancy what Hermione will do to us if we don't show up at least sort of on time."

Harry sprints down the stairs, a flurry of limbs and clothing as he tries to tie his tie around the collar of a still unbuttoned shirt. George waits for him at the landing, looking surprisingly dapper and groomed in a sharp black suit. They've been roommates for almost a year now, ever since Harry's graduation from Hogwarts, neither of them ready to live alone yet. George's bright orange hair has been gelled back, away from his face. With his hair out of the way, the hole on the side of his head looks so obvious. But George doesn't seem to care. He smirks as Harry runs over to him, clearly amused at Harry's futile attempts to simultaneously button his shirt, put on his suit jacket, and tie an at least presentable knot on his tie.

"Ever heard of this little thing called magic?" George asks. "Might be handy."

Harry makes a face at him and continues buttoning his shirt.

"I think I can manage to at least get my own clothes on without it," he retorts.

"You sure about that, mate?" George replies with a smile. "Because you've just put that button into the wrong hole there."

"Oh, bugger." Harry waves his wand over his shirt, giving up. Right now, there isn't any time left to try and salvage his pride. They're late, and Harry doesn't even want to imagine what Hermione's face will look like if they're any later. His shirt flies into place, buttons snapping into their proper holes, and his deep green tie slithers around his neck like a snake, tying itself into a perfectly flat knot. Harry almost imagines it looks smug.

"All set?" asks George.

"Yeah," Harry nods.

"Let's go then."

The pair turns on the spot. A loud crack echoes around the now empty room, reverberating off the beige wallpaper. The two boys are gone.

Harry lands on wet ground. He's in the middle of a large field. Thick green grass spreads out in every direction, bounded by a neatly trimmed line of hedges. Every so often blue and purple flowers peek up from the green, looking around curiously. It's raining softly. Gentle droplets fall on Harry's exposed skin, leaving cool circles on his flesh. Distant music floats across the grass, wafting up into Harry's ears. A violin, playing slow, keening notes. Harry spins in a circle looking for the source of the music. He quickly finds it. On the other side of the field is an area of grass where the rain doesn't fall. Instead, the water seems to strike an invisible barrier and slide away. Harry can see the shape of the enclosed space by the way the water slithers across its surface: a neat dome. Within the bubble, rows of white chairs sit on either side of a broad aisle. At the end of the aisle is a lattice arch, covered in looping vines of white flowers. Harry can see a familiar patch of red hair waiting by the flowers, and a twinge of guilt stabs through him. He should be standing there, too, next to Ron. It is his job as best man, after all. And then a white clad figure steps into the empty aisle and Harry starts sprinting. He can see George already running several yards ahead of him. The ceremony has already started. Not only are Harry and George late, but they're super late. They're super late, and Harry is the best man. He has to be there. He can't miss his best friends' wedding.

The ground is soft and muddy beneath his feet, squelching audibly with each step. Harry knows that he must be ruining his nice dress shoes, but he doesn't have time to care. He has to run, has to get there in time to stand at Ron's side while he and Hermione make their vows. He has to. A large, glassy puddle pools in front of him, a miniature lake of rainwater. Harry briefly considers going around it to spare himself soaking pant legs, but there isn't enough time. He runs into the water. His foot comes down, his other foot already off the ground in preparation for his next step. But there is no next step. Instead of meeting solid ground and then rebounding, Harry's shoe just sinks down into nothingness. He doesn't even have time to cry out before he falls down into black.

It feels as though he'll never stop falling. The contents of Harry's stomach are churning, bubbling up and threatening to spew out of his throat in a stream of acrid vomit. Harry keeps his mouth clenched shut, trying to gain some control of his body. He's falling fast, too fast to be descending through water, and his skin feels perfectly dry. But he wouldn't swear that what he's falling through is air, either. He's falling so fast, faster than gravity alone is capable of, so fast that his lungs are flattened in his chest, unable to fill.

He needs to breathe.

He _needs_ to breathe.

He needs to not vomit and breathe.

Harry's chest is burning, his throat is tight. He needs air, needs it now. And then Harry's head begins to grow fuzzy and light. His thoughts melt, losing recognizable shape and form. No words, no images, just need, primal and instinctive.

And then, just as Harry's mind begins to go as black as his surroundings, solid ground forms beneath his feet. Harry crashes down onto hard pavement with a thud. The impact hurts, sending a piercing pain shooting through his spine, but he finally isn't falling anymore. He isn't falling, and, at last, he can breathe. Harry gasps in a shallow breath and winces as his flattened lungs try to inflate. It takes several burning inhalations before his body is finally working normally again.

Harry lies there on the cold cement, eyes closed, still trying to keep the contents of his stomach in his body. Everything hurts. He's sure that in a few hours his entire body will be covered in bruises. And then, as Harry's body begins to settle, panic takes over. Harry forces himself to sit up, his hand automatically reaching for the pocket where he normally keeps his wand. His fingers curl around smooth wood, and Harry sighs, relieved. He still has his wand. He isn't entirely defenseless.

But as he sits up his head starts spinning. The world tips, tilting sideways, and Harry almost falls back down again. His ears are ringing, filled with a sharp, piercing whine. But no, it isn't Harry's ears. Something out there is actually making the sound: a loud, repetitive wail like that of a siren or an alarm. Harry focuses on the sound, trying to steady himself. It seems to be coming from all around him, emanating from the very air he's breathing. And then, finally, the world settles, ceasing its dizzying spirals. Harry is sitting in the middle of a dark street. It seems to be a residential area. Houses of various styles and ages sit in tight rows on either side of the street, their exterior walls practically touching they're so close. Some houses seem to be ancient, quaint little cottages; others are modern, all hard edges and glass. It would seem as though Harry is still in London, but there's no way to be certain. And the wailing sound is everywhere.

Then loud cracks cut across the noise and figures appear in the dark. One moment the street is empty, eerily deserted and black, the next, hooded men fill the street. They're everywhere, surrounding Harry on all sides. At least six of them. Wands raise from billowing sleeves, pointing at Harry. Incantations form on shadowy lips, and Harry's instincts kick into gear. Instantly he's rolling, tumbling out of the way as bright jets of red and green light scorch the pavement where he'd just been. His own wand is up and ready now and he leaps to his feet, spinning round to sink a stunner right into one of the cloaked men's chests. Then Harry jumps sideways again. He has to keep moving, has to keep changing the target until he can get to cover. Beams of light fill the air like fireworks, exploding mere inches from Harry's skin. Harry can almost feel the heat from some of them as they skim past.

He fires a few spells wildly, trying to provide himself some cover. One of them strikes home, nicking a man's shoulder and sending him flopping to the ground, stiff as a board. But there are still four assailants left, and Harry is too busy dodging to have time to run or find any cover. Harry spins, swirling away to the right to avoid a killing curse and pain blossoms in his arm as a different spell hits him. The skin on Harry's forearm splits, spurting red as his flesh is ripped apart by the magic. Harry stumbles, surprise and pain flickering across his face like the lines of static on old film. For a moment, he is exposed. His attackers aim their wands, smug, victorious. Then lights erupts from the dark of the houses. Spells shoot out from the shadows, striking the robed men, who crumple, dead, to the ground. And people are running out into the street.

Harry stiffens, his hand tightening around his wand, unsure if these newcomers are his friends simply because they attacked his enemies. Then the figures step into the fluorescent light of the streetlamps and Harry relaxes, relieved. He knows those faces. He is safe.

Neville, Seamus, and another boy Harry doesn't know jog onto the sidewalk. Their expressions are solemn, worried frowns forming thin creases between their eyebrows.

"Neville, Seamus," Harry calls. "What's going on? Who are these people?" Harry gestures at the limp figures peppering the ground. But to Harry's surprise, instead of their usual friendly greeting, Neville and Seamus' eyes go wide. They stare at Harry, a combination of shock and horror pooling in their white eyeballs. Instantly they stop walking towards him, their footsteps faltering, stuttering to a halt. And then Harry knows: something is wrong. Horribly, terribly, wrong. Their eyes as they watch him are distant and detached, the way a scientist would look at a rat in a maze. There's no familiarity there, no friendliness. These figures look like Seamus and Neville, but they are not Harry's friends.

What is going on? Could they have been obliviated? Or are these people not Neville and Seamus at all, but merely strangers in disguise, maybe people who've taken polyjuice potions to try and look like them. But why go to all that trouble only to stop pretending to be Harry's friends now?

"You know us?" asks Neville. His voice is low and smooth, guarded. Harry doesn't reply. Any response he could make might give something away, and until Harry knows exactly what he's dealing with, he can't afford to reveal anything to these people who look so much like his friends. Neville doesn't seem to need Harry to speak, though. Instead, he just squints slightly, taking in Harry's expression.

"You do, don't you?" he continues. "Or at least, you think you do. Crazy. So we exist there too, do we?" Harry's frown deepens. _So we exist there too, do we?_ These are dangerous words, dripping with hints about Harry's situation that Harry is almost afraid to analyze. So these people are claiming to be Neville and Seamus, then, just—what? Different versions of Neville and Seamus? And if Harry's versions of Neville and Seamus exist _there_, then where exactly is here? Harry continues to say nothing, still unsure.

"Not feeling very chatty, huh?" says Neville, filling in Harry's silence. "Well, maybe that's for the best. We don't exactly have time to chit chat. At least, not here. They'll send more soon when they realize these guys aren't coming back. We have to get you somewhere secure."

Finally Harry speaks.

"They?" he asks.

"The Death Eaters, of course," answers Seamus. His voice is so familiar, every inflection a match for the Seamus Harry knows. But it's not. At least, it's not if Harry's interpreting what the Neville person had said right, or if it wasn't all just some big, elaborate lie.

"But this isn't the place to answer questions," interjects Neville. He steps forwards, holding his palm out towards Harry, clearly expecting Harry to take it. "We have to go now. We may not be able to handle the reinforcements so easily. Come on."

"Why on earth should I go anywhere with you?" snaps Harry, recoiling. His arm is hurting now, a deep throbbing pain. Blood oozes down over his wrist, warm and wet as it rolls over the curves of his palm to drip from his fingertips. He feels vulnerable. Injured, and vulnerable. And somewhere, deep down in the pit of Harry's stomach, Harry knows something is horribly wrong.

"Because," says Neville, his arm still outstretched, "we are the only people in this entire world who know who you are, Harry Potter. And our leader, Ariana, is the only person who can actually answer your questions."

The name pricks something inside Harry, nudging at memories buried deep. A spark of recognition.

"Ariana…" he repeats, turning the name into a question.

"Yes, Ariana," snaps Neville. Harry can see the other boy getting nervous now. His eyes are darting around the empty street, clearly worried that it won't be so empty in a minute. "Ariana Dumbledore. Now are you satisfied yet, because it really isn't safe here."

Ariana Dumbledore. Their leader. Ariana Dumbledore is alive, alive and well enough to lead someone, something. The information swirls sluggishly through Harry's brain, a worm inching through dense mud. This can't be real. Dumbledore's sister is dead. Very dead. She died long ago, back when Dumbledore was still young and involved with Grindlewald. Her death had been what had really scared him away from Grindlwald, what had guilted him into becoming the great man and savior he had become. Someone had killed Ariana that night, a spell that had missed its intended target and claimed her instead. But neither Dumbledore nor Grindelwald had ever known who. And that fact had haunted Dumbledore for the rest of his life, that he might have been his sister's murderer. No, Ariana, is definitely dead. But there is no lie in Neville's face, only fear, growing up from nerves into panic.

"Potter," Neville shouts, and now Harry can hear the anxiety in his words, "we have to go now! They'll send someone else! They might even send—"

A loud crack splits the air, the largest balloon ever made popping. And now Neville is running towards Harry, running like his life depends on it, like both their lives depend on it. And they do. Because up the street is a figure Harry knows horribly well. A figure Harry has seen in his dreams for years, a figure Harry saw for the first time his second year of school. Tom Riddle stands on the rain soaked cement, tall and lean and painfully handsome. Sharp, defined jaw, high, chiseled cheekbones, straight, dark brows, and cherry red eyes. Eyes staring straight at Harry. Tom begins to raise his wand, an incantation blossoming on his lips, but arms are around Harry now, cradling him. And then the world vanishes with a bang.

*Author's Note: Well, there you guys have it! Chapter one! I hope you guys have enjoyed this first chapter! I have certain elements of the plot for this story already planned out, but I am open to requests if you guys have any. If you haven't read my previous HP/TMR stories, I hope you will. If you like this one, then you might like those, too. To those of you who are like: "but why are you writing a new HP/TMR fic instead of finishing _Watching, Waiting_," the answer is that I've taken several creative writing classes this year, and I feel that my writing style and abilities have developed a lot since writing that story. It just felt weird trying to continue it. This particular story is going to be longish one, I can already tell, but I do plan to have the entire thing written by the end of the summer. Please review with your comments and suggestions! I love to hear from you guys! Thanks so much for reading! :D*


	2. Chapter 2

Through the Puddles of Time

Chapter 2

*Author's Note: Hi, guys! Thank you all so much for continuing to read my story! I'm so glad you guys seem to like it so far, and I have been so grateful to hear from you guys in all the nice reviews you've left! Sorry this took me a few days to get up here, it took a little tweaking before I was happy with it. Well, anyways, here's chapter two! I hope you enjoy it!*

Harry follows Neville down a long corridor, looking around curiously. They're in an old warehouse, clearly long since abandoned. The floor is a single slab of concrete, dappled with fragments of broken glass and chipped stone. Every few meters, metal columns stretch up towards the high ceiling, rising up to meet a lattice of steel beams. Rust creeps along the metal: a deep, copper fungus. It's dark. Long strands of electric lights stretch along the wall, but they aren't illuminated. Many of them don't even have bulbs. The only source of light in the entire room comes from small, luminous orbs, floating in the air like glowing bubbles. They shiver and bounce as Harry passes, disturbed by the air currents of his movements. Clearly not muggle creations like the rest of the building.

"This is really your headquarters?" Harry asks, frowning around at their stark surroundings. It certainly doesn't look like people live here. Everything is cold and uninviting, nothing but the skeletal remains of industry. A place for machines, not humans.

"For now at least," says Neville. "But we'll have to move soon. We can't stay in any one place for more than a few weeks or they might find us."

"They?" asks Harry. "You mean the Death Eaters?"

"Yeah," says Neville. "The Death Eaters. Or the Youngest Sons. We're actually in their territory now."

"The Youngest Sons?" Harry repeats, turning the phrase into a question. Hearing Harry's lack of recognition, Neville turns, glancing back at Harry over his shoulder. His round face is creased into a thoughtful frown.

"You mean you don't know who they are? Don't they exist there, too?" he asks. Now it's Harry's turn to frown.

"_There_. You keep saying '_there_'. What do you mean? Where's there? Where's here for that matter?"

Neville just watches Harry pensively for a moment, then he shakes his head and continues on down the hallway towards a large grey door. Harry wants to run, wants to sprint over to Neville and grab him and shake him and make him tell him what the hell is going on, but instead he takes a deep breath, calming himself down a little.

"I'd better let her answer those questions for you," says Neville. Then he knocks on the door, leaning in to call through the wood: "I have him. Is it safe?" Neville turns his head, listening. He must hear some response Harry doesn't, because after a second he nods and pushes the door open.

"Head on in," says Neville to Harry, holding the door open for him. Harry gives Neville one last look, then crosses the threshold. Neville doesn't follow.

Harry steps into a long, narrow room. One wall is lined with huge floor to ceiling windows, segmented into neat squares of glass by metal frames. Some of the panels are broken. Their fragmented remains coat the floor, glittering occasionally in the room's dim light. Sitting in the middle of the room in a pair of floral purple armchairs are an elderly man and woman. Harry recognizes the man instantly. Piercing blue eyes look up at Harry from beneath bushy grey eyebrows, eyes Harry remembers seeing reflected in a shard of mirror. Eyes that had watched over him, even if they had done so reluctantly. Eyes so like their brother's. Aberforth Dumbledore. At his side is a petite woman, her white hair pulled back into a loose bun. Her face is clearly that of a once handsome woman, with prominent cheekbones and deep set eyes, but she looks ill. Her cheeks are sunken and gaunt, and her skin looks sallow. Her eyes seem so dark amongst such pale features, like black holes. She stares at Harry so intently, he feels he will be sucked into them.

"Mr. Potter," the woman says. "Before we begin, I need you to promise me that if at any time during this conversation I tell you to run, you will run out of this room immediately, without any hesitation. Do you hear me? No hesitation. I tell you to run and you run like your life depends upon it, because it will. Do you understand?"

It's a strange way to start a conversation. Certainly not the first words Harry had expected this sweet looking old woman to say to him. But he can see in her eyes that she means every word. Harry nods.

"Excellent," says the woman and a smile spreads over her face, creasing her pale features into a sea of fine lines. "Please, sit. I am Ariana Dumbledore, although I am sure our Neville has probably already told you that. And this is my brother, Aberforth." Ariana waves her hand, gesturing to the empty armchair across from her. Harry obligingly lowers himself into it. Probably better to sit, anyways. He still feels a bit nauseous, and this is all so strange. Harry cannot be sitting down across from an elderly Ariana Dumbledore. He just can't. She's dead, very dead. But as Harry squints at her face, he can see the remnants of the smiling blond girl from the portrait hanging in the Hog's Head. This woman is who she says she is, only there's no way.

"And you," Ariana continues, seemingly unaware of the fact that she should be rotting in a grave somewhere, "are Harry Potter. The boy who is going to save us all."

"I'm sorry," interrupts Harry, "but I don't understand. How do you know who I am, and why do you think that I'm the one who's going to save you guys? I don't even know what it is I'm supposedly saving you from. Hell, I don't even know where I am right now."

"You have questions, of course," replies Ariana. "I know this must all be horribly confusing. I, myself, don't know all of what is going on here. But I will tell you what I do know. I warn you, though, it's a lot to take in."

"I just want answers," says Harry. He needs to know, needs to fill this sinking pit of confusion he's been falling further and further into. His stomach is twisted in knots, a cold, thin feeling like homesickness clenching in his gut. He needs to know what's going on.

"Alright," says Ariana. Her voice is soft and soothing, the way someone would speak to a frightened animal. "I'll start with your first question, shall I? I know these things because I am a seer. It's the only kind of magic I can do that's at all useful, really. And I saw you, Mr. Potter. I saw you come to us from another world and I saw you lead us to victory. We need you to help us defeat them like you did in your world."

"My world?" says Harry. "What do you mean my world? How can—, where is this if it's not my world?" Ariana frowns, reaching up to smooth down her hair with a frail hand.

"These are questions I don't know enough about myself," she admits. "All I can say is that we exist in a world that's separate from yours. At least, it was, until just recently. But for some reason our two worlds have been encroaching on one another. The border between them is getting thin, for lack of a better way of putting it. Holes are popping up. Holes like the one you yourself passed through to get here."

"But the people here are people in my world, too," Harry protests. "At least some of them, I think. How can two versions of the same person exist like this? If you're a whole other world, shouldn't you be more, I don't know, other?" Ariana's frown deepens, worry pooling into the dips of her face.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I just can't answer these things for you. I don't know enough about it myself. All I know is what I saw, and what I saw is you fall from another world into ours to lead us against the Death Eaters and the Youngest Sons."

"The Youngest Sons," Harry asks. "Who are they?"

"Just them?" asks Ariana, suddenly curious. There's a spark in her eye now, a glint of interest. "Not the Death Eaters, too?" Harry shakes his head.

"We, um, we have a version of them, I suppose, in our world," says Harry. It sounds so strange to hear himself talking about his life this way, as if the man he spent his entire life trying to defeat was just some copy of this world's Voldemort. Harry wonders how many other Lord Voldemorts are out there, trying to dominate their world's muggles and muggleborns. He wonders if there are other hims, too, out there fighting them. He wonders if they ever lose.

"But not the Youngest Sons?" Ariana presses. Harry shakes his head.

"Interesting," Ariana breathes, then she continues her explanation. "Well, I will do my best to summarize who they are then. The Youngest Sons aren't that dissimilar to the Death Eaters, really. Their ideals are the same: to create a world where witches and wizards are in charge and muggles are just servants, below them, some subclass living in constant fear and admiration, or some such thing. The only difference between the groups really is their leaders. You'd think the two groups would work together just fine since they want the same things, but power doesn't work that way, I suppose. To share it, is to diminish it. And neither Riddle nor Albus and Grindelwald want to share."

"Albus?" asks Harry. It's as if a bolt of electricity has just shot through him, coursing up his spine to rest, tingling in his fingertips. Dumbledore. Albus Dumbledore is in charge of some evil, Death Eater like group. Albus, the man who had guided Harry through everything, taking him step by step through growing up into the Chosen One. The man who had sacrificed everything, even his own life to defeat Voldemort and Grindelwald. How can this be true? How can any version of that great man be a tyrant like Lord Voldemort? Even here, even in a whole other world.

Ariana sees the recognition on Harry's face.

"You know my brother in your world?" she asks.

"I—yes," says Harry. "But in my world your brother would never—he was a great man. He was my mentor, my teacher. And he never would do any of the things you're describing to me. Never."

Harry looks up into Ariana's face to see tears gathering, making her eyes gleam in the dim light. But there's a smile on her face: a warm, wistful smile.

"Really?" she asks, and there's hope in her words. Hope and longing and love. But there's a sadness, too. The Albus Harry is describing isn't hers, but he is an Albus. And that Albus is a hero, not a dark lord. It's a bittersweet knowledge, knowing that he could have been great, that he didn't have to become this way.

"Yes," says Harry. "In my world, your brother was a leader against dark magic. He defeated Grindelwald, got an Order of Merlin, first class for doing it, too. And he was the leader of the Order of the Phoenix, too, the group who fought against Voldemort. He's the reason I was able to defeat him. His careful planning and training. It was all him. He was an amazing man." A tear trickles down Ariana's cheek, but the smile on her face grows, filled with pride for this other version of her brother. Aberforth just frowns, staring at Harry intently, scrutinizing his face for any sign of a lie.

"Thank you." Ariana sniffs, wiping her cheek with the back of her wizened hand. "You don't know how glad it makes me to hear that. My brother here, well, he never reached that potential. He is powerful, undoubtably powerful, but he doesn't use that power for anything good. Sure, he claims he does it for some greater good, but those are just words. He must believe them, though. Even he isn't so hungry for power as to do all of this without at least thinking that he has some good reason."

Aberforth scoffs at these words, a disbelieving huff of exhaled air. Ariana shoots him a warning look.

"It's Grindelwald's influence, I think," she continues. "Albus' relationship with him is when this whole thing started, after all. They lead the Youngest Sons together, ruling over the northern half of England. That's how they divide it, you see: the Youngest Sons get the North with Liverpool as their capital, and the Death Eaters get the south, using London as their base."

"But why are they called the Youngest Sons?" asks Harry. "Albus was the oldest, wasn't he? And I don't think Grindelwald had any siblings at all."

It's Aberforth who answers, finally breaking his sullen silence.

"No one knows," Aberforth says in his gravelly voice. "They keep it right secretive. I wouldn't be surprised if even their followers, who call themselves it so proudly, don't even know. The bloody idiots."

"Will you help us?" Ariana asks suddenly, gazing at Harry intently. Her bony hands grip the armrests of her chair, creating deep pockmarks in the floral fabric. "The muggles of our world have been reduced to mere slaves. The muggleborns we can't get to in time are prisoners, locked up in Azkaban or tortured and murdered on charges of crimes against magic like they stole their powers from some _real_ wizard. The truth is, Mr. Potter, that we are struggling to survive let alone fight back. We are struggling and we need help. We need you."

Harry's head is still reeling, trying to sort out everything he's just heard. Everything that was once so certain and stable, neatly tucked into the category of Truth, is now on end, scattered and in question. But despite this fog, Harry knows his answer. It's easy. It's in his nature. Fighting against the forces Ariana is describing is all Harry has ever done, all he knows how to do.

"I'll help," he says, and Ariana beams. But Aberforth jumps to his feet, suddenly incredulous. His fluffy eyebrows are furrowed together; his jaw is tight with indignation.

"Seriously?" he asks, his voice filled with scorn. "Just like that? We just suck you out of some other world and say pretty please would you kill three of the most powerful dark wizards of all time for us and tear down their entire organizations while you're at it, and you just say sure? Where's your sense, boy? You're just a bloody child, for Merlin's sake. What we're asking is ridiculous. You should just go back to your cozy little world where my brother is some fucking hero and live out your days in peace." Aberforth seems so large in this moment, all broad shoulders and billowing robes and frizzy grey hair. Ariana clutches her stomach with one hand, concern etched across her narrow face.

"Aberforth, stop this," she says placatingly. "We need him. He's doing the right thing now, the brave thing."

"The brave thing?" snaps Aberforth. "Ha! The dumb thing more like it! Bravery is just some name we give to people who don't have enough common sense to go save themselves. No, you're not telling him too many things, Ariana. What about the fact that we are losing, miserably, hopelessly losing? That there's only a handful of us left to even help? There's nothing some little boy like him can do here. No, you get out of here, boy. Go save yourself now while you still can."

"I think helping is the right thing to do," says Harry. His temper is kicking in now, heat and energy flaring in his chest. Every Gryffindor instinct in his body is shouting at him that giving up is wrong, that if he had given up before during the war that everything would have been lost. Harry can tell that Aberforth is giving up now, probably has been for quite some time. Something inside Harry is repulsed by that, and now Aberforth is trying to drag Harry down with him into his cowardice.

_You have to fight. Fight until the end. Fight until you die. That is honor._

"That's a boy's answer," says Aberforth. "A boy… You don't strike me as a fool, Harry Potter." Suddenly, a thrill of déjà vu courses through Harry. Those words sound familiar, an echo of something heard once long ago. Words that came from another version of those thin cracked lips. And now Harry knows what to do.

"And that's a coward's answer," he says. "You weren't a coward in my world, not in the end. You're not allowed to be one here." Blue eyes go wide, puffed up with indignation.

"A coward? No, Potter, I'm just not a complete idiot. We've lost this battle long ago. All we can do now is slow down our own inevitable deaths. You shouldn't have to get sucked down with us. Hell, I'm helping you, kid. Take this out. Take it now so you don't have to die with us."

"No," says Harry, and now he's on his feet too, face mere inches from Aberforth's red features. "This isn't over. Just because you've given up doesn't mean everyone else has to, too. Your sister believes. And Neville and Seamus, who risked their lives to come get me, clearly still believe, and they're fighting! I'm not going to leave you guys to this. I'm just not. Now shut the hell up and just accept my help, won't you?"

"What help can some kid like you poss—"

"Aberforth!" shouts Ariana, cutting off her brother in mid-sentence, and there's a panic in her voice, a panic that has both Harry and Aberforth silent and listening in an instant. They turn, focusing all their attention on the seated woman. She's crumpled over now, clutching at her stomach, her face scrunched up in obvious pain. Sweat drips from her brow, warm beads of moisture clinging to her deathly pale skin.

"Run!"

And suddenly hands are on Harry, pushing him, shoving him towards the door and Harry and Aberforth are running, running like their lives depend on it. As they reach the door, Harry's thoughts spin, caught up a whirlpool of panicked confusion. Something bad is happening, something horrible and dangerous. He can feel the fear pouring off of Aberforth, could hear the terror in Ariana's voice. But why are they leaving Ariana behind? Maybe he should go back, grab her and take her with him. But Aberforth is pushing him through the door and now they're jumping and the door is slamming shut behind them, and something, something explodes.

The entire building shakes. Cracks spread across the ground like spiders' webs, emanating out from the room where Ariana sits. The door rattles, threatening to give way and the floor is vibrating beneath Harry's cheek, filled with energy. Aberforth's weight is on top of him, crushing him, flattening Harry's lungs in his chest, but the man is trying to protect him from whatever force is shaking the building like a bored child with a snow globe. And then, in an instant, everything is still. But there's a thrumming in the air, power sparking. Aberforth rolls off Harry, turning to look back at the closed door.

"What was that?" asks Harry.

"What is that, you mean," says Aberforth, getting to his feet. "It's not over yet. You can feel it, can't you, boy?"

"Yeah," says Harry, standing as well. A tinge of pain shoots through his knees where they smashed against the hard floor. His hands are scratched, too, red and raw.

"It's Ariana," says Aberforth. He stands staring at the door, a faraway look in his eyes. His words aren't quite directed at Harry. "Her magic. She can't control it, not since—well, not since she was young. Sometimes it just explodes, especially if she's feeling emotional. And when it does it could attack anyone. Even the people she cares about most." Here, Aberforth trails off, but Harry knows what he must be thinking of. Their mother, Kendra, killed by one of Ariana's first outbursts of magic.

"What do we do?" asks Harry.

"Nothing yet," replies Aberforth. "There's nothing we can do until the episode is over. Could be killed if we went in there now. Just have to wait it out."

Harry nods, and the pair watches the door. The air continues to tremble. Occasionally, the door jolts, shaking in its frame as if something, some great monster inside, is trying to escape. Then Aberforth breaks the silence.

"My brother, in your world, he's really some sort of hero?" he asks. He still doesn't look at Harry, as if averting his gaze will keep Harry from knowing how important the answer is to him.

"He was," says Harry. "He died fighting Voldemort. Died trying to save everyone." He pauses for a moment, then continues. "There was this boy Voldemort ordered to kill Dumbledore, a student at Hogwarts with me actually, but Dumbledore knew that the boy didn't have it in him, that he was still innocent despite it all. And he knew what Voldemort would do to this boy and his family if the boy wasn't able to do it, kill him, I mean. So he stopped him, killed himself another way before the boy would have to. He gave him that second chance. I thought at the time that he was crazy, but Dumbledore just saw something in the boy I couldn't yet. He was able to see people, see the good in them, even people who were our enemies. He was… a wise man. He was definitely a hero."

Harry glances over at the older man. Aberforth is still staring at the door, but he doesn't seem to see it. His mind is elsewhere, trying to comprehend this other version of his brother, the way things could have been. His broad face is scrunched up into a deep scowl. His thick eyebrows dip down into a V over his nose, and his blue eyes are slits, glaring into nothing. He seems angry. Angry at this world's version of Albus for making such choices, for being a tyrant when he could have been such a hero. But at the same time he's angry at Harry's version of Albus for existing at all, for making hating this world's version of his brother even harder, even more complicated. Aberforth opens his mouth to speak.

And a wailing noise fills the air, high pitched and incessant. It's horribly loud, impossible to ignore. An alarm of some sort, similar to the one that went off when Harry landed in that London street. And then footsteps echo off the walls as Seamus and Neville run up the hallway towards them.

"Fuck," swears Aberforth, looking around in horror. "They've found us."

"It's the sensors!" yells Neville, skidding to a halt in front of Harry and Aberforth. "Her magic must have set them off. They're coming!"

"What sensors?" asks Harry, "What's happening?" All around them everything is chaos. Harry can hear yelling from up the hallway. Occasionally, a body rushes by, people sprinting, panicking, shouting. And then the loud cracks of disapparation. Everyone is fleeing.

"The Youngest Sons," explains Seamus hurriedly, "they've set up all these sensors across their territory that pick up high concentrations of magic. They'll be here in a moment. Maybe twenty seconds if we're lucky. We've got to go."

"But what about Ariana?" asks Harry. They all turn, looking at the door. It's still shuddering in its frame. Clearly, Ariana's latest episode isn't over yet. Harry looks up at Aberforth. A myriad of emotions are flickering across his face, pain, guilt, sadness, and then finally his expression settles into one of grim determination.

"You go," he says. "You have to get Potter out of here, get him to safety. I'll stay behind and try to get her out as soon as the magic has subsided."

"We can't just leave you," Harry says. He knows that expression. It's the face of a man who knows that he's sacrificing himself, who knows that he won't be coming after them. It's the same expression Albus wore on that rooftop when he sent Harry away, the same expression Harry himself wore as he walked into the Forbidden Forest to die.

"You can and you will, boy," snaps Aberforth. "Neville, get him out of here, now!" He looks at Harry for a moment, sizing him up grimly. "And until I get back to you he's in charge." Another burst of loud booms echo down the hallway, only this time Harry knows people are apparating in, not disapparating out to safety. Bad people. The Youngest Sons.

"Wait—" Harry begins to say, reaching for his wand in his pocket. Every fiber of his being is screaming at him to stand and fight, not run and leave Aberforth and Ariana here defenseless like some coward, but for the second time that day, Neville's arm are wrapping around him, and suddenly the world is dark and black and he can't breathe.

Aberforth is alone in the hallway. He exhales sharply, staring at the empty space where the boy had been mere seconds earlier. Then he gathers himself up to his full height, spinning on the spot to stand tall and stable, legs braced, his wand at his side. Next to him, the door continues to quiver. He hopes that it will continue to do so, that Ariana's magic will keep them away from her for at least a little longer. He raises his wand, pointing it up the hallway where he can already hear the patter of footsteps. Whatever else happens tonight, the first person coming around that corner is going to regret ever meeting the inventor of the Goat Horn Hex.

_You have to fight. Fight until the end. Fight until you die. That is honor._

And Aberforth is fighting.

*Author's Note: Well there you have it, chapter two is complete! I really hope you guys liked it. What do you think about the name of Albus'/Grindelwald's organization? I'm curious if any of you can figure out what the name refers to! Please review with any feedback, suggestions or just to say hi! :) I love hearing from you guys, it really makes my day. I am especially grateful to hear from those of you who also read and reviewed my other stories while I was writing them. I am so glad to have you as readers once more; you are all awesome! I said this before, but if you guys have any requests for this story I am happy to keep them in mind. Thanks so much for reading, and the next chapter should be up soon!*


	3. Chapter 3

Through the Puddles of Time

Chapter Three

*Author's Note: Hi, guys! Thank you so much for sticking with this story! I'm glad you guys seem to like it! Thank you all so much for your reviews. It has been great to hear from you. I hope you like chapter three!*

"Neville, you have got to stop doing that," snaps Harry as they land in a heap on damp grass. They're in the middle of a large field, a massive expanse of green ringed in a thick layer of bushy oaks. The field is dark. Night has progressed far enough that it is beginning to gestate into early morning. Even the moon is gone, hidden beneath a layer of dense clouds. But the field glitters and glows in the blackness, illuminated by the light of a hundred wands. Figures line the edge of the field, wands raised, casting protection charms over the area. Their voices fill the air, a soft murmur of incantations. The light from their wands seeps up into the dark, curving overhead to form a gleaming dome above the grass. Within the dome, they are safe. At least, as safe as they can be.

"Where are we?" asks Harry, pushing Neville off him and getting to his feet. Neville stands up too, brushing stray blades of grass from his cloak.

"We're at the secondary meeting point," explains Neville, plodding off across the grass towards the center of the field where several figures are erecting massive tents. White fabric blossoms from wand tips, shooting out to form draped roofs and hanging walls, suspended, floating in midair. Harry hurries to catch up, jogging a little until he's walking at Neville's side. On their left, some of the people casting the protection charms come into clearer view. Most of them Harry doesn't recognize, a motley collection of British muggleborns and rebels. But then, as Harry and Neville move farther into the field, Harry recognizes someone: a blonde girl with wavy, waist length hair and large, vacant grey eyes. Luna. Harry's footsteps falter for a moment as he stops to look at her. She seems so much like the Luna from his world. The same daydreamer's stare, the same milky white skin and pale, almost white eyebrows. Harry frowns, squinting through the dark, then a smile spreads over his face, fondness bubbling up in his chest. Dangling from this Luna's ears, briefly illuminated by a particularly bright flash of wand light, are a pair of red radish earrings. Some things even an entirely different universe can't change.

"Come on," says Neville, beckoning Harry forwards once more. "We've got to meet with the others. Make sure everyone made it out alright and figure out what we're going to do next." Harry nods, following Neville towards the unfolding tents. At the tents, everything is a flurry of motion. Huge sheets of white fabric billow through the air, creating an intricate network of tented hallways and larger rooms. Ropes appear from midair, winding through the grass like snakes to catch hold of loose fabric and hoist it up into the night's sky. One curls around Harry's feet, almost tripping him before it slithers on its way. People drift in between the tents too, casting spells and setting things up. A few of them wave at Neville, calling out brief greetings before moving on their way. Some shoot Harry inquisitive looks, whispering behind raised hands. Curious. Watching. Harry wonders how many of them know that he's not from this world, that he's the boy who's supposed to save them all.

"In here," says Neville, gesturing to one of the few tents that's already completely erected. He ducks beneath the flaps of the tent's doorway, waving for Harry to follow him. He does. They emerge into a massive room, much larger than the outside of the tent would have suggested. The ceilings rise up into the darkness, endless stretches of white muslin. The ground beneath Harry's feet is no longer soft grass, but has instead transformed into dark planks of glossy wood. In the center of the room is a massive, white table, round and covered in pieces of paper. Surrounding this table are a collection of wooden chairs. Three of these chairs are already occupied. As Neville and Harry enter, the chairs' occupants rise and Harry's heart stops, stuttering in his chest. His breath is caught, trapped useless in his throat as his eyes burn, stinging as tears threaten to blur his vision. Sitting in the center chair is Remus Lupin. Alive and breathing. The same green eyes Harry remembers, the same brown stubbly beard and mustache. The scar is there, too, a slash of raised skin cutting across his cheeks and nose. And he's alive. And then, rising from the seat next to him is someone who does send tears streaming down Harry's face. Long, curly black hair, a narrow, gaunt face, still gifted with some of the good looks of his youth, and mischievous grey eyes. Eyes wide with recognition.

"Bloody hell," murmurs Sirius, staring at Harry's face in shocked realization. "You look just like him." He moves as if in a dream, walking slowly around the table towards Harry. They stare at each other, eyes locked, each seeing a ghost in the other's features. Harry wants to run forwards, to run and meet Sirius and bury his face in Sirius' chest, to feel the texture of his cloak and the muscles beneath his rough skin and to know, to know that Sirius is alive. But he doesn't. He stays rooted to the spot, unable to move as salty tears eclipse his vision. This is not his Sirius. This man isn't the one he rescued from Hogwarts all those years ago, isn't the one Harry broke into the Ministry of Magic to save. This Sirius never yelled at Molly, fighting for her to recognize him as Harry's parent. This Sirius never promised Harry that once everything was over, they'd be a proper family. He is a Sirius, but he's not Harry's. Only as Sirius approaches and reaches out one hand to gently cup Harry's jaw, it's hard to remember all of this. Every detail of his face, every scar, every dip, even the deep blue circles beneath his tired eyes belong to the Sirius Harry remembers, the Sirius whose death has haunted his nightmares for years, the Sirius he couldn't save.

"You look so like your father," says Sirius, gazing at Harry's face in wonder. "Except your eyes. You have—"

"My mother's eyes," finishes Harry. A wistful smile quirks up the corners of Sirius' lips and he removes his hand from Harry's chin.

"Yeah," he agrees. "Lily's eyes, alright."

A calloused thumb swipes across Harry's cheek, wiping away a tear.

"Now, now, lad," says Sirius. "No need for tears, eh?" But he, too, looks sad now. His jaw is tight, a muscle spasming near his ear briefly as he clenches his teeth. His eyes, as he looks at Harry, see the past.

"I fought, you know," he says softly, and his voice is rough and gravely with regret. "I tried to save you, tried to keep them from coming to get you, you and your parents. But there was nothing I could do. They, well, they trusted the wrong person. Wormtail, the sodding little coward, gave them up to save his own teeth, but none of us knew, you see. By the time I got there…" his voice falters here for a moment, almost unable to go on, but he collects himself, pressing forwards. "By the time I got there you were all dead. Your mum, James, and you, just a baby. He'd already slaughtered so many people by then, you'd think I wouldn't be surprised, but to see your little body there... Your little body…" Sirius' hand tightens on Harry's cheek, his fingers pressing into Harry's skin almost painfully. Then he drops his hand to his side, shaking his head and forcing a smile.

"But here you are, all grown up, the spitting image of James at your age. Hell, you could be his twin if it weren't for those eyes of yours." Then hope blossoms on Sirius' face, an idea flickering into life.

"Hey," he exclaims. "I don't suppose there's any chance, I mean, James, is he alive in your world too? If you made it through that night, then maybe—"

Harry shakes his head, cutting Sirius off. It's kinder to stop him now before he's raised his hopes too much.

"No," says Harry, and Sirius' expression falls. "Neither of my parents survived that night. They made the same mistake as the James and Lily here did: they thought no one would think Peter would be their secret keeper, that everyone would just assume it was you. And then Peter betrayed them." Harry glances back at Lupin, taking in the werewolf's contemplative frown.

"But they went down fighting," Harry continues. "My father told my mother to run, to take me with her while he tried to stall Voldemort. He died protecting us, and then my mother died protecting me. It was that sacrifice that saved me. The fact that she died to save me, that love, created a magical protection not even the killing curse could break through. The curse rebounded instead, hitting Voldemort. For the next eleven years he was bodiless, weak, nothing but a floating fragment of soul forced to possess people in order to survive. But the curse did give me this." Harry reaches up, lifting his bangs to reveal the thin, red scar winding its way up his forehead.

Sirius frowns down at the mark, awed.

"Just a little baby," he mutters, "knocking down the most powerful dark wizard for eleven years… Surviving the killing curse, for Merlin's sake." Then he claps Harry on the shoulder, a proud smile tugging at his thin lips.

"Looks like you really are James' son," he declares warmly, and Harry finds himself smiling too.

"Hate to ruin this little moment and all," says Neville, his voice surprisingly casual amidst the flood of emotions bombarding Harry, "but we need to focus. Did everyone make it out?" Lupin seems to snap to at these words, tearing his eyes away from Harry to concentrate on Neville's question.

"Everyone has checked in except Aberforth and Ariana," says Lupin, his tone worried. "You guys were some of the last to leave, I think. Do either of you have any idea what might be keeping them?"

"Ariana was in the middle of one of her episodes when the alarm was triggered," says Neville. "We couldn't get to her to get her out, the magic was still loose, but Aberforth—"

The tent flaps blow open, moved by air currents caused by no natural wind. A glowing shape canters in through the opening, its delicate hooves silent on the wooden floor. A large goat, spun from silver light, gallops into the center of the room. It stops, looking around at the tent's inhabitants briefly with blank eyes, then Aberforth's voice fills the space. His words are rushed, clearly done in the last, panicked moments remaining to him.

"CAPTURED," says the voice. "ARIANA TOO. POTTER, DON'T LET THEM KNOW HOW YOU GOT HERE." Then, abruptly, the message ends. In a swirl of white smoke, the patronus vanishes, its task complete. No one speaks, digesting the message's contents. Finally, Harry breaks the silence.

"I'm assuming you're not the 'they' he's referring to?" he asks, looking over at Lupin. Lupin shakes his head, frowning down at the table's surface.

"No," he says. "I'm sure Aberforth was referring to the Death Eaters or the Youngest Sons. We, at least, the people in this room, already know how you got here. Although I wouldn't tell anyone else, Harry. The fewer people who know the better. You never know who will get captured, who they might be able to get information from. Aberforth and Ariana, they would die before giving anything up, but others aren't quite so strong."

"But why the big secret?" asks Harry. "What does it matter how I got from there to here?"

"Because, Harry," says Lupin, "your way through wasn't just a one way route. If the enemy finds out how you got here, then they can figure out a way to get to your world too. And then your world would be just like ours, and trust me, you don't want that."

"Wait?" exclaims Harry. "You mean, I can go back if I want to? I'm not just stranded here forever?" Something flashes across Lupin's face as he takes in the Harry's excitement, fear, maybe, doubt. Then it's gone, replaced by stony seriousness.

"Yes," he says. "It is possible to go back."

"What? You're not going to leave us, are you?" exclaims Sirius, suddenly indignant. "I thought you were going to fight with us. You're supposed to be the big savior, after all!" His grey eyes are accusatory, hurt. Harry looks up at him for a moment, thinking it through. It's still amazing to him, to be talking to Sirius and Remus like this. His heart aches in his chest, a physical throb below his ribcage. He has been given a second chance here. A chance to save Sirius and Remus the way he couldn't in his world, a chance to save them all. To do it right, the way he wasn't strong enough to do before.

"I am going back to my world," Harry says finally. "But I'll be back, I promise. I just need to get us some reinforcements. There are people in my world I wouldn't dream of trying to fight a war without."

-X-X-X-

Harry stands in the middle of the field, Lupin on one side, Sirius on the other. The commotion all over the camp has died down now. Almost everyone is inside the tents, recuperating. Only a few people are still outside, patrolling the perimeter. Harry looks down at the puddle at his feet. In the darkness, the puddle seems inky black. The only sign of its existence is a slight gleam on its curved edge. Harry can't even make out his own reflection on the water's surface.

"So what do I do?" he asks Lupin. "It can't be as simple as stepping in, can it? Otherwise everyone would just be falling through."

"No," says Lupin, shaking his head. "As far as we can tell, it has to do with intention. You have to know this is a portal, and jump in intending to use it as a gateway across the worlds. Just picture the place you want to go, hold it in your mind's eye."

"It might help if you close your eyes," adds Sirius.

"And I get back the same way?" asks Harry.

"I should think so," says Lupin. "Of course, Harry, none of this is certain. This is uncharted territory we're dealing with here. All we have are the speculations of others, scholars who've looked into this kind of thing. But Ariana was reasonably sure that's how this is done, and more often than not her hunches are right."

A twinge of nostalgia shoots through Harry, a smile tugging at his lips. He remembers hearing those words about another Dumbledore not too long ago.

"Alright," he says. "Well, let's give it a go then, shall we? One way or another, I'll be back here within the day. Hopefully, I'll have others with me: help."

"Be careful," says Sirius. Harry looks up into his godfather's grey eyes, eyes he thought he'd never see again, and smiles.

"Don't worry," he says, a smirk worthy of his father spreading over his face. "I'm going back to the safe world, remember?" And he jumps.

Blackness, blackness crushing him, suffocating him, leeching the air from his lungs as if his skin and muscles are nothing but rice paper. And he's falling. His stomach has dislocated itself, finding its way up his throat to the back of his mouth and he's falling fast. Faster than should be possible. Fast enough that he can feel the pressure of it on his feet and limbs. It has to end soon. This can't go on forever. But it isn't ending, and now Harry's getting worried. What if something went wrong? What if this isn't the way back after all, but just a trap, some pit into the bowels of the earth, a fall that will never end. Only he can't go on much longer without air. He's going to suffocate, suffocate and die and then his body will still be stuck in this never ending fall.

And then, he's on a sidewalk. He gasps in air, taking in deep rattling breaths as his heart beat slows, finally able to pump enough oxygenated blood with each squeeze of muscle. He's on a quiet suburban street. Streetlights illuminate the pavement, segmenting the street into glowing orbs of lamplight. The houses here are all small and well kept, with perfectly manicured lawns and colorful blooms of flowers in their window boxes. The house in front of Harry is one of the smallest on the block: a blue, one story structure with a single car garage and a battered white sedan in the driveway. Harry smiles, exhilarated. He's come to the right place. It worked.

Harry walks up the paved pathway to the house's front door, knocking on the painted white wood. Despite the late hour, he doesn't have to wait long. Within moments, Harry can hear footsteps and a lock clicking as the door swings open. Hermione's face fills the gap. She looks worried, disheveled. She's wearing dark blue jeans and a white t-shirt, but there's still makeup on her face, and a white flower is caught in the frizzy curls of her hair. When she sees Harry, her eyes widen in relief. She flings the door open, leaping out to throw her arms around Harry's torso, squeezing him in a tight, almost painful hug.

"Oh, Harry!" she exclaims. "Where on earth have you been? We've all been so worried! When George realized you weren't behind him anymore, and we knew you would never miss the wedding, not unless you had no choice!"

"I'll explain in a minute," says Harry, patting Hermione gently on the back. "But I think you'd better get Ron first. There's something we need to talk about."

Hermione pulls back slightly, loosening her hold on Harry's chest. She frowns up into Harry's face, searching his expression for an explanation. Her relief is gone, replaced by a new kind of worry.

"Is it bad?" she asks.

"Yes," says Harry. No point in sugar coating it. If anyone can handle the harsh truth, it's Hermione. Besides, she'll find out in a minute anyways. Hermione looks up at Harry for one more moment, then she pats him lightly on the arm and steps back.

"I'll go get Ron," she says. Her voice is calm, and in that moment, Harry is overcome with respect for her. No matter what, no matter how bad things get, Hermione stays quick and calm.

"He's just upstairs," she continues, leading Harry into the house. "Why don't you wait for us in the dining room?"

Harry nods, crossing through an archway into the flat's dining area. Beige walls surround a narrow wooden table. The chairs surrounding it don't quite match, the eclectic mix of furniture any new home is doomed to: a combination of hand-me-downs from various family members and a few newly purchased items. Photos in mismatched frames line the walls, pictures of the Weasleys and Hermione's parents, a few photos of friends, too, Neville and Luna, Seamus and Dean, and, of course, Harry himself. The figures in the photos smile fondly at Harry, waving furiously. All except the miniature Fred and George, who pull faces and laugh silent, far away laughter. Harry pulls out one of the chairs, sinking down into its soft, pale green cushions. He waits. Upstairs, he can hear muffled conversation. Hermione's slightly high pitched voice and Ron's lower rumble. Then hurried footsteps.

Ron careens into the room, skidding to a halt when he sees Harry sitting there.

"Harry!" he gasps. "Blimey, mate! Where the hell have you been? We've been looking all over for you."

"That's part of what I'm here to explain actually," says Harry, glancing back and forth between Ron's confused look and Hermione's worried frown. "You'd better have a seat. There's a lot we need to talk about."

-X-X-X-

Ron's face is a mask of horror, his gaze distant and far away.

"I already booked the honeymoon," he mutters, visions of piña coladas and palm trees swaying in his head. "We were going to go to Tahiti. It's nonrefundable. Cost me a full month's wages…"

"Honestly, Ron!" gasps Hermione, exasperated. "That is not what we should be focusing on right now." Ron looks up at Harry, blue eyes wide with disappointment.

"Hermione said she'd wear a bikini…" he says.

"I'm sorry," says Harry. "I know this is a lot to ask. I've already got you guys into one war before."

"Nonsense," says Hermione, laying a comforting hand on Harry's shoulder. "You didn't get us into anything. That was our war, too."

"But this one isn't," protests Ron, getting to his feet. "I mean, who knows how many other worlds are out there, right? How many of them is it our responsibility to save? All of them, or just the ones we happen to trip and fall into? Our responsibility has to end somewhere, and I'm thinking that somewhere should be our world."

"I can't answer that," says Harry, shaking his head. His expression is grave, dark brows furrowed, jaw tense. "But I gave my word that I'd help these people." He looks up into Ron's face, green eyes pleading. He needs Ron to understand, even if he decides not to help. He needs him to get what Harry is feeling.

"They're us, Ron," Harry continues. "Versions of us. And Sirius is there. Alive. Remus, too. They're all there, Ron. Luna, Neville, Seamus. They're there and they need our help. I can't force you to come with me, not if you don't want to, but I won't just leave them there to die. I can't." Ron studies Harry's face, blue eyes flickering back and forth between Harry's irises, lips tight. Then he sags, his shoulders drooping slightly in defeat and nods.

"Alright, mate," he says softly. "I guess I'm in then."

"Really?" asks Harry.

"Yeah," says Ron, a small smile playing over his lips, a melancholy smile. "Can't leave you out there on your own, can I? I mean, where would you have been the first time around without us?" Harry smiles, standing up to clasp Ron's arm affectionately.

"And you?" asks Harry, turning to Hermione. Hermione reaches up, fiddling absently with the loose strands of her curly hair. Her searching fingers find the flower there, a white orchid, shot through with streaks of vibrant purple. Gently, she pulls it free, cradling it in her open palm. The final remnant of her wedding this morning. Then she looks up, meeting Harry's eyes.

"Of course I'm coming," she says softly. Her voice is calm, completely collected. "I watched Ron try and back our car into the wrong driveway the other day. You two would be completely lost without me. Besides, it sounds like we'll have to interfere eventually. If they can get over here, then they're a threat. Might as well deal with them now on our terms while we still have the element of surprise on our side." She gets to her feet, placing the flower down onto the surface of the table. The quiet, suburban life that could have been.

"Ron and I will go gather everyone together," she continues. "I won't force anyone to help, not after what they've already all been through, but we'll get those who volunteer. There are a few things I need to do before we leave, too. Some things to pack, arrangements to make, etcetera. There are a few books upstairs I think will be useful. You should go home too, Harry. Get some stuff. The cloak, for example. We'll meet back tonight. How about back at the park, where you first went through? Seven o'clock?"

Respect floods through Harry at her words. Hermione has just heard that there's an entirely separate world out there, one where Voldemort, Albus and Grindelwald rule, one she is going to have to enter and fight a whole other war in, and she's still so calm, still practical and planning.

"Hermione, you are amazing," says Harry, smiling over at her. Hermione flushes, her cheeks staining a deep pink.

"Nonsense," she says, flapping her hand dismissively at Harry. "Go on, you. Get out of here. We don't have that much time. We'll see you at seven." Harry nods, pushing past Ron towards the front door.

"At seven," he agrees.

-X-X-X-

Seven o'clock. The sun is just beginning to set. Harry walks along the sidewalk towards the park. The streetlamps have come on, their bulbs illuminated a warm yellow, but it's not dark enough yet for their light to show up on the pavement below. The world isn't exactly bright, though. It's been drizzling on and off all day, but for now everything is still. A thick layer of fog hovers over London. A cool light filters through, grey bleeding down from the clouds to spread over the city. But the park as Harry approaches is a vibrant flush of green. A tall, cast iron fence separates the park from the road. Harry passes through, moving up a stone path into the park. Grass stretches out on all sides, bordered in a thick layer of shrubs. Standing in the middle of the field is a small huddle of people. Seeing them, Harry smiles, jogging out to meet them.

Luna, her blond hair pulled up into a loose bun, a huge yellow flower tucked behind one ear. Neville, smiling and waving. Hermione, a shoulder bag slung across her back. Then a flush of red hair from the Weasleys: George, Percy, Ginny and Ron. A twinge of regret shoots through Harry upon seeing them. They're the only ones left now. This generation, once the youngsters of the Order of the Phoenix, are now its leaders. Almost everyone older is now dead, killed in the last war. Remus, Tonks, Sirius, Moody, Albus, even Snape. All dead, sacrificed to protect their loved ones. Harry wonders how many of them will make it this time. He looks around at his friends' smiling faces and wonders if he's dooming them, dragging them into a war they can't win. After all, how many times can they get lucky? But there's nothing else he can do. The idea of Death Eaters rising up from the ground here, seeping out of puddles like shadows to ransack these serene streets, is impossible, too horrible to think about. No, Harry can't let that happen. This world, at least, has to remain saved after everything they've been through.

"So," says Neville as Harry approaches. "Hermione tells us we're about to hop into another world through some rain water."

"We've already picked out the perfect puddle, if I do say so myself," adds George, gesturing grandly towards a murky puddle at his feet. "Nice and jumpable. Chose it myself."

"Bill and Fleur couldn't make it," explains Hermione. "They've got Victoire after all, didn't think it wise to leave the baby, especially not so last minute. But they say if things start looking bad to send for them. And I told Mr. and Mrs. Weasley to stay here. If something goes wrong, if we fail, we need another line of resistance here in case they figure out a way through."

"You think of everything, Hermione," says Harry. He hadn't even considered what would've happened if they had been defeated without anyone left here as back up. He looks around, studying his friends' faces closely. They're smiling, an almost joking air clinging to them, but Harry can feel the tension, too. They know what they're getting into. They know what real fighting is, real pain, real death. And they're here anyways. But Harry has to ask.

"You guys are sure?" he says. "Once we go through, I don't know how long it is before we'll be able to come back."

"We're sure," says George.

"Definitely," agrees Neville, nodding. Luna just smiles a big, dreamy smile, dipping her head slightly in affirmation. Then Harry looks over at Ginny. Things have been slightly tense between them, awkward, since their breakup, but now she looks him right in the eye, unfaltering. She nods.

"We're here with you, Harry," she says. Her voice is firm and unwavering. Harry looks around at all his friends, ready to face death with him once more, and extends his hands out to them.

"Then link hands everyone," he says. "I have to guide us so that we land on the other side in the right place. Hold on tight, ok? We don't want anyone to get lost." They form a circle, fingers interlacing, squeezing tightly. Harry grasps Ron's hand on one side, George's on his other. Their skin is warm beneath his fingertips. And then, as one, they jump.

*Author's Note: Well, there you guys have it: chapter three. What do you guys think? I'm having a lot of fun being able to bring characters back from the dead. Who else do you guys want to see resurrected? Please review with any feedback or suggestions. I love to hear from you! Thank you all so much for reading! I'll have chapter four up for you soon.*


	4. Chapter 4

Through the Puddles of Time

Chapter Four

*Author's Note: Hey, guys! Welcome to chapter four! Thank you all for continuing to read this! I really appreciate your support. I especially want to thank everyone who's left such nice reviews! It really brightens my day to hear from you guys! Enjoy!*

Materialization hurts. Harry's feet slam down onto hard ground, shuddering slightly from the impact. Pain shoots through his limbs, curling in his already twisted stomach. But once again he has managed to make it, and based on the firm grips on his wrists, so have his friends. Harry takes a deep breath, steadying himself and pushing the bile down in his throat, then he opens his eyes. Off on his left, he can hear someone retching. Percy, doubled over, a green stream spewing from his open lips onto the grass. Harry looks around, a victorious smile spreading over his face when he immediately recognizes their surroundings as the clearing the rebel camp had been in before. But the smile stutters to a halt before it's fully born, sinking down into a perplexed frown. The clearing is empty. Completely and utterly empty. Nothing but grass, distant trees, and their small group huddled in the middle. The rebel camp is gone.

"This the right place?" asks Ron, seeing Harry's expression.

"Yeah," says Harry, letting go of George's and Ron's hands and spinning around to make sure he hasn't missed something, that there really isn't any sign of them. "This is where their camp was, alright. But they're not here. They should be. This is where we were supposed to meet."

"Maybe they were discovered and had to run," suggests Hermione gravely. "Did you set up a secondary meeting spot?"

"No," admits Harry. "I didn't think of it." A cold ball of worry is forming in his gut, panic beginning to pulse in his veins. How could he have been so stupid as to not establish a secondary meeting point when this group was so obviously on the run? When they had already just had to abandon one encampment in a hurry due to discovery? This war is supposed to be Harry's second chance, his opportunity to do things right, and already he's making stupid mistakes. He has no idea where the rebels could be if they're not here, no idea how to get in touch with them or send them a message. He's brought his friends all the way across the worlds just to leave them stranded in some empty field in enemy territory.

And then hands blossom from thin air, pale arms reaching from the shadows, cut off, floating, at the elbows. The hands grab them. The hands pull. And suddenly, everything is different. No longer are Harry, Ron, Hermione, Percy, Ginny, Neville and Luna in an empty patch of grass. Instead, they're in the middle of a maze of white tents. And all around them are people.

"The wards," explains the other world's Neville, smirking down at Harry's stunned face in amusement. "You could wander this whole field and not see us unless we let you in."

"Fuck," grumbles Harry, catching his balance. "Might have told me that before I left."

"Where's the fun in that?" their Neville replies, his grin spreading. Then he looks up past Harry and his expression freezes, pale green eyes going wide.

"Bloody hell…" he murmurs, his words barely more than an exhale. The two Nevilles stare at each other, each searching the other for any sign of difference. But aside from their clothing and a slight difference in the length of their hair, they're identical. Mirror images of one another. Broad, rounded jaws, deep set eyes, thick brows several shades darker than their sandy blond hair. All the same.

"You really do look just like me," says Harry's Neville.

"I don't know," says the other Neville. "I definitely think I'm the better looking one."

"Not a chance," retorts Harry's Neville, but he's smiling. The two Lunas seem completely unphased by seeing one another. They merely glide towards each other, identical secretive smiles on their faces as they clasp hands.

"I like your earrings," says Harry's Luna pleasantly. The other Luna smiles, tilting her head slightly to the side. Her radish earrings jingle lightly with the movement.

"Yours are nice, too," she replies. Harry blinks, looking back and forth between the two pairs of earrings. They're exactly the same. But the two Lunas seem perfectly pleased with the compliments, smiling gently at one another, their fingers affectionately interlaced.

"Unfortunately, that's all the time we've got for introductions," says the other world's Neville, gesturing back towards the camp's main tent. "Our spies have gathered some information about Ariana and Aberforth's whereabouts while you were busy gallivanting about some other world. We need to go meet with the others, get you fellows up to speed. I assume you've already filled them in on everything you know?"

"Yeah," says Harry, following the other world's Neville across the grass towards the tent. "I've told them what I can. Although I'm sure we all have more questions."

"Well, they're going to have to wait," replies Neville. "We only have a brief window of time in which to actually act on the information we've received. We've got a chance to rescue them, but we've got to move quickly. But I'll let Remus fill you in on the rest. This is really more his territory."

Harry leads the group into the camp's largest tent, holding back the white flap of fabric covering the tent's entrance for Harry's friends to pass in front of him. Inside is the same room with a large table and chairs that Harry remembers. Seated at the table are Remus, Sirius, and a pale girl Harry doesn't recognize. When Harry's group enters, Remus stands up, waving the unknown girl out of the room. She slips past them, shooting them a curious look as she goes. Her eyes settle particularly on the two Nevilles and Lunas, a look of surprise flickering across her face. Then, she's gone.

"You're back, Harry," says Remus, sounding relieved. "Excellent. We need to get moving right away. There's only so much time before our opportunity has passed."

"To rescue Ariana and Aberforth, you mean?" asks Harry.

"Yes," replies Remus. "While you were away we got word from one of our spies in the Youngest Sons. Apparently Ariana and Aberforth are being held in a warehouse just outside Liverpool for tonight only while their longer term cell is being prepared. Albus is no fool. He knows that if Ariana has another episode her magic would just tear apart any normal enclosure. Our reports say that he's constructing another cell specifically for her near their headquarters."

"Once they're moved there it will become infinitely harder to get them out again," adds Sirius. "Now is our chance. Now, while the security around them is reasonably minimal."

"What are we waiting for then?" asks George with a grin. "Let's get while the getting's good." Remus squints slightly, studying George's face carefully.

"That red hair," he murmurs, almost to himself. "You are Weasleys, aren't you?"

"Right you are," says George. "At least, so our mum assures us." Remus looks past George then, giving his world's Neville a knowing look. Neville seems to understand the silent message, nodding quickly and hurrying from the tent.

"Oh, right!" exclaims Harry, suddenly feeling like an idiot. He lifts his arm, pointing at each member of his group in time. "Suppose I'd better introduce everyone, right? I think you guys recognize our Neville and Luna. And then this here is Hermione Granger, and then Ron, Ginny, Percy and George Weasley." Remus nods politely, flashing the group a brief smile.

"Nice to have a few Weasleys back in the place," says Sirius, grinning warmly. "Bloody good family, the Weasleys were."

"Were?" asks Percy, nervously pushing his horn-rimmed glasses further up his nose.

"Yes, unfortunately," replies Sirius. "A while back there was a period of time we used the Burrow as our headquarters. Merlin, must have been at least ten years ago now. But they figured it out. Wasn't too hard to do, really. After all, the Weasleys were always pretty openly supportive of us. Not a dark instinct in the lot of 'em. Unfortunately, our alarms were detected and cut off right before they attacked us. We had no warning. Some of us managed to make it out alright, but most of the Weasleys, well, you lot, I suppose, didn't make it. There just wasn't any time. They were on us in mere moments. But your family went down fighting, I'll say that. So many kids, though. They didn't really have a chance, not at that age against fully fledged wizards. It was horrible. Such a tragedy."

"It's nice to know that at least in another world you made it," says Remus, gazing at the Weasleys intently, his brows furrowed. "Somewhere, you got to grow up. Even if that place couldn't be here."

"Did no one from our family make it?" asks Percy, his voice catching slightly on the words. He quickly clears his throat, trying to cover for the glimpse of emotion.

"Well, actually—" begins Sirius, but he's cut off by the reentry of their world's Neville.

"Got him," says their Neville brightly, and behind him, ducking beneath the white fabric of the tent's doorway is a familiar patch of short orange hair. For a moment, Harry can't tell which twin it is: Fred or George. The George gasps, tears welling in his and his siblings' eyes, and he knows. Fred stares at the group of his family members as if seeing ghosts, and really, to him, this must be what it feels like. This Fred's family has been dead for years, gone when he just a child. His brown eyes bounce around the group, studying their faces closely before they settle on the features of his twin. The two brothers stare at each other, lines of silent communication running between their irises. George's jaw tightens, a muscle spasming in his cheek as his lower lip quivers slightly. Then he stumbles forwards, falling into Fred's waiting arms. He clutches the other boy to him, burying his face in his twin's chest. They stand there holding each other tightly, mirror images of one another, their expressions identical ones of pain and love. Then the other Weasleys step forwards too, as if some silent permission had been granted by George's hug. They surround Fred, Ginny throwing her arms around whatever part of Fred's torso she can reach around George, Ron and Percy patting Fred enthusiastically on the shoulders and back. Harry can see the tears rolling down Percy's face, welling up behind his glasses' thick frames as he gazes down into the face of a sibling he once watched die in his arms. And in that moment, any doubts Harry had about dragging his friends into this mess vanish. How can coming here not be the right thing when it brings this moment? How can they not fight for these people so much like their lost loved ones?

"I hate to interrupt this moment," says Remus, his voice slightly raspy as he gazes at the pile of hugging Weasleys, "but we don't have much time. We have to act now, tonight, before Ariana and Aberforth are moved." Reluctantly, the group spreads out once more, stepping back from Fred to give Remus their full attention once more. Everyone except George, that is, who stays at his brother's side, their hands clasped tightly together. So tightly their fingers leave white marks on the other's flesh.

"Right," says Ron.

"Of course," agrees Percy.

"Let's go," the twins say together.

-X-X-X-

Harry, Ron, Hermione and the other world's Neville creep through the dark, thighs aching from crouching low for so long. They're inching down a narrow corridor. The building around them is distinctly industrial. Cement floors slither ahead. Tall ceilings stretch up into black. Behind them, the building's exterior wall has been cut away, a neat rectangular patch of corrugated metal burnt into nothingness. The hole's edges still glow faintly. A rim of orange light, dripping sparks. Through the opening, Liverpool glitters in the distance, a landscape defined entirely by pin pricks of blue light. It's an eclectic mix, modern skyscrapers peppered between low, old fashioned buildings. Occasionally, the ornate spire of a cathedral pokes up into the sky, searching in vain for heaven amidst the fog. The warehouse Harry and his friends are currently sneaking around is quite low and flat in comparison. But it feels huge. Endlessly, overwhelmingly huge. Ariana and Aberforth could be anywhere.

Harry takes the lead, his wand casting a faint sphere of light before them. Just behind him, Hermione's wand is raised, too. Its tip glows a pale, icy blue. The light flickers, pulsing occasionally. The further into the building they move, the faster it flashes. A honing device, leading them towards where Ariana and Aberforth are being kept.

Then, in front of Harry, where once there was just thin air, a head appears. Ron's wan features loom up from the dark, floating, seemingly unsupported. Puffy blue eyes surrounded by almost invisible lashes. Straight orange brows pointing down in a frown towards a broad, rounded nose. Heart shaped lips pursed and crumpled.

"You've got to see this," Ron says grimly. Then the head spins around in midair and bobs away into the dark. Harry hurries to follow. Slowly, segment by segment, the corridor is revealed to them. Then, suddenly, a body appears in the sphere of light. A member of the Youngest Sons based on his sapphire blue robes and the tattoo across his forehead: a triangle bifurcated by a long, thin line, enclosed in a neat circle. The symbol of the Deathly Hallows. The man is limp, sprawled across the ground in a jumble of limbs. His upper body is propped against the wall, as if he slid down it to land here. His eyes are closed. His face relaxed. A stream of blood trickles down his tan face, a deep trail of crimson. The blood is fresh, still bright red and uncongealed. Hermione kneels down beside him, pressing two fingers into the man's neck. Then she shakes her head.

"He's dead," she proclaims, getting to her feet once more.

"But we only just got here," says Neville, frowning down at the body. "Who else would do this?"

"No one good," murmurs Harry. "We need to be careful. Ron, you go on ahead again. Make sure we don't get caught unawares like this guy."

Ron's floating chin dips down in a nod, a strange sight without any visible body beneath it. Then his face vanishes, melting away into the hall as he pulls the invisibility cloak up over himself once more. Harry focuses on his wand tip, dimming its light until the glow stops mere inches before his toes. They can't afford to be seen. Especially not now. Not when they don't know who could be waiting for them.

Harry waits a moment to give Ron a bit of head start, then moves off again. They pass a closed door, but the pulse of Hermione's wand stays the same so they move on. Then, an invisible hand slams into Harry's chest, stopping him mid-step.

"Nox," whispers Harry quickly, extinguishing his wand. Then Hermione's wand goes out, too, and everything is black.

"Men up ahead," whispers Ron in Harry's ear. "Follow me. Move slow." Fingers grope down Harry's arm, feeling their way to his hand. Getting the idea, Harry reaches behind himself, feeling around in the darkness until his fingertips meet soft fabric. The sleeve of Hermione's robe. Harry grab's Hermione's hand, pulling it up so that her fingers curl around his shoulder. They each need at least one free hand for their wands if a fight breaks out. He hopes Hermione will get the picture and do the same with Neville.

"Alright," whispers Harry. "Let's go." The group shuffles forwards, their movements awkward and constrained. Around them, the warehouse is truly, utterly dark. Harry follows the pull on his hand, stumbling forwards into nothingness. He just has to hope Ron has some idea where they're headed. Then, up ahead, light blossoms. Around it, a patch of the room is revealed. Harry can just make out the dim outline of tall, metal shelves stretching up towards the ceiling. Boxes line the shelves, wares waiting to be shipped out. The light bleeds out from behind these, partially hidden. The figures casting this light are completely obscured. But as they inch closer, Harry can make out voices.

"The imbeciles," drawls a haughty male voice. "Did they honestly think five guards was enough? For such important prisoners? Why we think of this group as competition I'll never know."

"Even idiots can be a threat under the right leadership. You ought to know that better than anyone, Malfoy," replies someone in raspy tones.

"Oh, do shut up, Greyback," snaps Malfoy, his tone suddenly much less smug. "Were those even words coming out of your mouth? Or just a dog yapping?"

"You wouldn't say that to me if I really was a wolf right now, blondie," growls Greyback, anger rumbling in his voice.

"Now, now, boys. This isn't the time to be fighting. Not when we've got little duckies to pluck," interrupts a piercing female voice. A voice Harry remembers all too well. Cold, high-pitched and cruel, with a hint of madness seeping in around the edges. The voice of Bellatrix Lestrange. And this time Mrs. Weasley isn't around to kick her arse. Harry squeezes Ron's hand, giving his arm a gentle tug to signal that they should stop.

"Neville, double back," Harry whispers. "Send word to the others that we've found them. Warn them we've got company."

"You got it," murmurs Neville. Then muffled footsteps fade away into the black.

"They won't be fast enough," Hermione whispers urgently. "At least a few minutes to get Neville's message and come find us. We need to at least distract them, keep them from taking Ariana and Aberforth before our back up finds us."

"We should spread out," says Harry. "Attack them from multiple directions at once before they know what's happening. They won't expect us here, not so quickly. Ron, you take Greyback. Hermione, Bellatrix. I'll aim for Malfoy."

"Right," says Ron. "Here, Hermione, take the cloak." There's a rustling of fabric, then an arm brushes past Harry's shoulder as Ron hands the invisibility cloak to Hermione.

"No, Ron, you'll need it," protests Hermione, trying to give it back.

"No," insists Ron. "I'll feel better knowing you can hide if worse comes to worst. Please, Hermione."

Hermione pauses for a moment, then: "Alright. I'll go left. Ron, you'd better head right. Harry can take the center." There's a whisper of fabric grazing skin as Hermione swirls the cloak around her. If the darkness wasn't already hiding her from view, Harry is sure that now, at least, she would be invisible.

"Good luck," she whispers. Then quiet footsteps move away from Harry, fading away into silence. He is alone. Inhale. Exhale. And he moves. He ducks low, knees bent as he creeps along the isle created by the rows of shelves. Up ahead, he can hear a clanking and creaking of metal. As he draws nearer, it becomes clear that these noises are coming from a huge metal cage. Lucius Malfoy has his wand pointed at the cage's oversized lock, multicolored streams of light pouring into the metal. Clearly, he's trying to break the cage's wards. Harry pauses, flattening himself as best he can against the shelving unit at his side. The metal feels cold on his skin, rivets digging uncomfortably into his flesh. But he needs some sort of cover in case their sneak attack goes wrong. Carefully, he takes aim at Lucius' cloaked back. Off to his left, a tiny blue spark glints in the dark. The signal.

_Stupify_, thinks Harry, and a jet of red light bursts from his wand, shooting through the air to sink, unimpeded, into Lucius' spine. Matching spells erupt from either side, barreling through the air towards Bellatrix and Greyback. But Harry's spell left his wand a second earlier than his companions', and that second is all the warning Bellatrix and Greyback need to dive out of the way. Bellatrix howls, rolling away in a surprisingly elegant spiral, Hermione's curse just missing her gaunt cheek. Greyback opts for the less dignified option, diving forwards onto his stomach to duck under Ron's spell. Instantly, everything is chaos. Bellatrix spins on the spot, snapping her wrist sharply as a spell curves from her jagged wand tip towards Hermione's invisible form. Harry can only assume Hermione got out of the way in time. He runs forwards, sprinting into the fray as he fires spells at Bellatrix's whirling form. Her round eyes focus in on him, her one visible assailant.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A jet of green light narrowly misses Harry's left ear, skittering away to blast a hole in one of the room's numerous boxes.

"Petrificus Totalus!" shouts Harry in return, but his spell is parried by a rapid flick of Bellatrix's wrist. She's smiling now, a manic grin spreading across her ashen face like a fungus. She sends another curse Harry's way, a thick beam of orange light that causes the boxes on his right to explode with a bang. Fire and heat assault Harry. The blast strikes Harry's upper body full force, sending him skidding to the ground. His side is burning, white hot pain shooting through his arm and shoulder. For a moment, the world tips sideways as his head spins. His ears are ringing, a dull, high-pitched whine, and everything is blurry and unstable. He knows he should be moving, dodging Bellatrix's inevitable next curse, but his muscles aren't listening to the messages from his brain. But no second spell is coming. Harry tries to focus on Bellatrix's wavering form, squinting through the cracked glass of his crushed spectacles. Bellatrix isn't pointing her wand at him. She isn't pointing it at Hermione or Ron either. Instead, she has rolled up her sleeve and is stabbing the tip of her wand into her own flesh.

"Stupify!" shouts Hermione's familiar voice, and a beam of red light streaks out, striking Bellatrix right in her corded neck. For a moment, Bellatrix's face is illuminated by the red light: a map of dark shadows and protruding pieces of crimson flesh. She's smiling, discolored teeth stabbing out in a toothy grin. Her smile doesn't waver as she falls, too powerful even for unconsciousness to fade entirely. Harry looks around, finally managing to get enough control over his body to raise his wand, but Greyback is already down, immobilized by Ron's well placed body binding curse.

"Harry, you alright, mate?" asks Ron, hurrying over to help Harry to his feet. Harry grimaces, rubbing his aching shoulder.

"I'll make it," he says.

"That all of 'em, you think?" asks Ron, glancing around nervously.

"For now," replies Harry grimly. "But it won't be for long. Bellatrix got to her dark mark before we could stop her. She's summoned him. We don't have much time."

Gleaming silver fabric swirls through the air as Hermione shoves the invisibility cloak from her shoulders, appearing before the cage doors. Inside, lying unconscious on the concrete floor, are Ariana and Aberforth's limp forms. Hermione frowns down at the lock on the door, casting a few diagnostic spells over the metal.

"Can you get it, Hermione?" asks Harry, limping over to her side.

"Yes, I think so," replies Hermione absently, already beginning to cast multicolored charms into the silver lock. Ron comes up behind her, grabbing the cloak from its pile on the floor.

"Maybe we should have let Malfoy finish before we knocked him out," he says, watching Hermione work.

"I can definitely get it," mutters Hermione. "The question is whether I can do it fast enough."

"Right," says Harry, dragging himself up to his full height and thrusting his shoulders back determinedly. He spins on the spot, turning his back on Hermione and the cage to face out into the dark. "I'll stand guard then. As soon as you get that thing open, you guys run in there and apparate them out of here. Don't wait for me to go. I'll follow."

"Alright, mate," agrees Ron. His wand is tight in his grasp, sweat beading on his forehead as he, too, glances nervously around the too silent warehouse. They know now who is coming. And Hermione's spells are moving all too slow. Lights continue to flash behind Harry, illuminating this small segment of the room in a different color with each spell. First the room is blue, then green, then lavender. Dim outlines of busted boxes, long shadows, and scaffolding reaching high flash in and out of view. Then, finally, the flashes cease and Hermione lets out a cry of relief. Metal clinks as the lock is dragged out of place. The door swings open, creaking on its hinges. So close now. Harry's hand clenches on his wand, slick with sweat.

There's a crack. The noise echoes off the tall ceiling, filling the huge room. And there, in the center of the room, turned towards Harry, is a face Harry recognizes all too well. A face from his childhood. Tom Marvolo Riddle raises his wand with an elegant hand, pointing it straight at Harry's face. But Hermione and Ron haven't grabbed Ariana and Aberforth yet, and even if they had, there isn't enough time for Harry to just apparate away. Instincts kick in, instincts hammered home by years of war, years of fighting this very same man. Harry's wand is up in front of his face, extended at arm's length towards the Dark Lord, and Harry is screaming.

"Expelliarmus!"

"Avada Kedavra!"

Red light and green speed towards one another, sparking and rippling through the air. The two spells collide in a shower of sparks, each trying to consume the other. And then Harry can feel it, power coursing through his wand, vibrating in his hand. The twin cores recognize one other, acknowledging their kinship in a blaze of energy. And suddenly, where the two spells meet, a new kind of power is forming, a streak of golden light that consumes both spells, sweeping up from the point of their connection back towards the castors' wands. Harry remembers this light, remembers what to do. He focuses, narrowing all his will on this connection. Light spews and spits from the main core of the spell, a physical sign of Harry's struggle. But he can feel the pressure fading around him, moving away towards Voldemort. And then, suddenly, a golden dome of twinkling light erupts around them, encasing him and Voldemort in a glittering shell. Harry can hear two cracks behind him. Hermione and Ron disapparating to safety. On the other side of the dome, Tom Riddle's handsome face is contorted into an expression of wide-eyed shock, staring horrified at his own wand shaking in his hand. Then, his wand gives one huge shudder and figures are spewing out into the darkness. They glow, their translucent bodies made up entirely of a pale blue light. So many of them. Most of them are people Harry doesn't recognize, Tom's numerous muggleborn and muggle victims. But then Molly Weasley is smiling down at him, Ginny at her side. Then Minerva McGonagall's sharp features, soft and glimmering.

"Go," she murmurs to Harry. Her voice sounds so far away, words form another world. "We'll distract him."

"Thank you, professor," says Harry gently. The blue figures rush forwards, a mass of bodies flooding across the concrete towards a stunned Tom. Now is Harry's chance.

"Finite," he whispers, ending the spell. The golden light binding him to Tom's wand vanishes, hissing like an extinguished flame. But the blue figures remain, swirling around Tom like water going down a drain. But even through their gleaming bodies Harry can feel Tom's eyes on him, boring into his face. Harry disapparates. Black eyes continue to examine the empty patch of air he'd inhabited, transfixed, while the remnants of the dead beat Tom with inconsequential fists. The dead hold no interest for Tom, though. They are nothing, just memories of what once was. He's much more concerned with the living. Specifically, the annoyingly still living boy who has just vanished. As Tom swats at the smoke-like bodies around him, he makes a silent vow: he's going to find out who the fuck this strange boy is and he's going to make him explain what the hell just happened here.

*Author's Note: And chapter four done! The drama is increasing! I couldn't resist putting in that little line about Mrs. Weasley fighting Bellatrix. That moment is just too fabulous in the books/movies. Don't you guys think? Thanks so much for reading. Please review with any comments or feedback. I love to hear from you! Have a great day, everyone!*


	5. Chapter 5

Through the Puddles of Time

Chapter Five

*Author's Note: Hi guys! Sorry it's taken me a little while to get this chapter up. It took me a few versions before I was happy with it. And I decided to make it a bit darker. On that note, there are some warnings for this chapter. This chapter does contain some graphic content including sexual content and torture, so if either of those offend you, maybe don't read this one after the first page break. The first scene is safe. I hope you enjoy!*

"The Deathly Hallows," murmurs Hermione. "It's obvious, really. The tattoos on their members. The name The Youngest Sons. They must be using them." She's seated at a huge round table in the rebel camp's main tent, Remus, Sirius, Harry and Ron gathered around her. The others are out tending to the injured, helping Madam Pomfrey patch people up after their tangle with the Death Eaters. Above Hermione, small orbs of light float through the air, bobbing up and down. They cast puddles of blue light onto Hermione's features, illuminating thin bands of flesh. The tip of her nose, the edge of her cheekbone, the corner of an eyebrow. The rest of her face is mere shadow.

"The Dumbledore and Grindelwald in our world were obsessed with the Hallows," agrees Harry. "It would make sense that the ones in this world are no different. And there wasn't anything here to stop them from getting their hands on all three."

"How does their name point to the Hallows, though?" asks Ron, frowning.

"Isn't it obvious?" asks Hermione, surprised. She looks around at the cluster of blank faces surrounding her, taken aback. "Am I really the only one who figured it out?"

A few awkward coughs fill the silence.

"Honestly, you guys," she continues. "The Youngest Sons? Clearly that's a reference to the youngest of the three Peverell brothers."

"Who are the Peverells?" asks Remus. "For that matter, what are these Deathly Hallows you're talking about? I've never even heard of them. I always just assumed the group's tattoo was just something they came up with." Everyone looks at Hermione. She glances at Harry and Ron briefly, then seeing that neither of them is about to explain, sighs and reaches for a quill.

"It begins with a story about three brothers," says Hermione, drawing three crude stick figures on a blank piece of parchment. Circle heads, stick bodies, and two lines each to represent arms and legs. "Just fairytale siblings, or so everyone thought. But there were some who thought differently, some who thought that these brothers might have, in fact, been the three Peverell siblings: Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignotus." She scrawls one name beneath each figure, neat loops of black cursive.

"The Albus and Grindlewald of our world belonged to this group of thought," she goes on. "In the story, the three brothers reached a segment of river too treacherous to pass. But since they were wizards, they merely used their magic to construct a bridge. But before they could actually cross, they found their way blocked by a hooded figure. It was Death, and he felt cheated. Normally, travelers drowned in the river. So rightfully, the brothers shouldn't have survived their crossing. But Death pretended to congratulate the brothers, offering them each a prize for their clever magic. The oldest brother asked for a wand more powerful than any in existence, a wand that could win any duel. So Death fashioned him one from an elder tree that stood nearby." Hermione writes _The Elder Wand_ beneath the stick figure of Antioch, drawing a single line beside the words.

"The middle brother asked for the power to recall loved ones from the grave, wanting to humiliate Death even further. So Death took a stone from the river and offered it to him," she continues, writing _The Resurrection Stone_ beneath the form of Cadmus and drawing a circle. "The youngest brother was the cleverest of the group. He asked for a way to leave that place without being followed by death. So Death reluctantly handed over his own cloak of invisibility." _The Cloak of Invisibility_ appears beneath Ignotus' drawing, a neat triangle at its side.

"The details of the rest of the story are less important," says Hermione, "All the brothers eventually die, but only the youngest, Ignotus, dies with any dignity and with the respect of Death. I think he's the group's namesake. And the three items Death gave to the Peverells form their symbol."

Hermione redraws the three Hallows, overlapping them in the center of the page. First the triangle, then the circle in its center, and finally, the line of the Elder Wand down the middle.

"The sign of the Deathly Hallows," Hermione concludes.

"I've heard of that story," says Sirius, frowning down at the paper. "A common tale for children. But I've never heard of the possibility of it being more than that."

"Well, it is," says Harry gravely. "Each of the items given to the brothers by Death are real, and the powers they are said to have are accurate."

"You mean, there's a rock out there somewhere that can really bring people back from the dead?" asks Sirius wonderingly. There's a slight edge to his voice, a hint of hope laced in his words. So many have died here before their time. Loved ones like James. But Harry shakes his head.

"Only sort of," Harry admits. "They come back, alright, but not fully. More like ghosts, just shadows of who they once were. It's not real. No one can really come back to life once they've crossed over. Not fully." Sirius' face falls, the hope blossoming there snuffed out.

"I see," he murmurs.

"So the wand that can defeat any opponent, that's real too?" asks Remus, concern tightening his lips and drawing his greying eyebrows down towards his nose.

"Unfortunately, yes," says Harry. "And I'd be willing to bet the Albus here has it just like he did in our world."

"How on earth are we going to beat a man with an unbeatable wand?" snaps Sirius, frustration growing. Everything seems so hopeless right now. Even more impossible than before.

"Well," says Hermione, a self-satisfied smirk spreading across her heart-shaped lips, "it just so happens that our world has its own copy of the Deathly Hallows. And the last person to have the loyalty and ownership of the Elder Wand in our world happens to be sitting in this very room." She turns to Harry, brown eyes glinting mischievously.

"You really think it would work?" Harry asks, frowning. The wand would have to be excavated from Dumbledore's tomb, but Harry is willing to risk the disrespect to his world's Albus if it means stopping this world's version from continuing on down this path. The cloak, too, is easy enough. It's already here, in fact, shrunk down into the bag slung over Hermione's shoulder. But the Resurrection Stone would take a bit of searching. Harry knows generally where in the Forbidden Forest it probably fell, but it would take a bit of rustling about in the underbrush to actually find it. But it could be done.

"I do," nods Hermione. "So long as we time it carefully and use the element of surprise well. I think it would work. At least, it would level the playing field a bit."

"Even if you can negate the effects of their Hallows," interrupts Remus, "there are still too many of the Youngest Sons for us to take on. Over the years our numbers have dwindled. Now, there are only around a hundred of us, and some of those are children and unable to fight. Dumbledore has at least a thousand in his army, and their numbers grow every day. We would be crushed before you got your version of the Elder Wand anywhere near him."

"And then there's still the issue of the Death Eaters," adds Sirius gloomily. "We definitely don't have the manpower to take out both."

"Maybe we don't have to," murmurs Harry. "At least, not on our own." He's staring off across the tent, but his eyes don't see the fluttering white fabric or the gleaming circles of light. Instead, his mind looks into the past, sifting through his knowledge of the one man who has always been so inescapable, such a huge part of his destiny.

"If there's one thing I can never imagine Voldemort wanting to do, it's share power," Harry continues, speaking more to himself than to the earnest faces around him. "I'm sure that if he had a way to take out the Youngest Sons he would have done so by now. But he's always been afraid of Dumbledore. He knows Albus is the one person more powerful than him. If we could offer him a way to take out Dumbledore for him, I would be willing to bet he'd make a truce with us, if only temporarily."

"You've got to be kidding!" snaps Sirius, horrified. He jumps to his feet, almost knocking over his chair behind him, slamming his palms down on the table. "You can't seriously be suggesting that we form some kind of alliance with the Death Eaters!"

"Just a temporary one," explains Harry quickly. "No alliance would last once Dumbledore is out of the picture, but until then, Voldemort knows he can't defeat the Youngest Sons on his own. It would work, I know it! And with the damage tearing down the Youngest Sons would do to the Death Eater ranks, we would actually stand a chance of then taking them out, too."

"This is ridiculous!" shouts Sirius, pacing the length of the table like a panther in a cage. Remus, on the other hand, just looks thoughtful.

"Why ally with the Death Eaters, though?" he asks. "I mean, why not ally with the Youngest Sons first against the Death Eaters and then face the Youngest Sons second? Maybe it's just that I have come to know Ariana and Aberforth so well, but Albus seems like the more trustworthy ally to me."

"Because," explains Harry, "Albus Dumbledore is the most powerful wizard I have ever met. The most insightful, the most cunning. I have seen him fight, seen the reasoning and planning he is capable of. There is no way I could take down Dumbledore on my own, even if we just ignore taking Grindelwald out too. Voldemort, on the other hand, I have already defeated. That, at least, I know I can do."

Sirius just shakes his head, a muscle flickering in his jaw from clenching his teeth together so tightly. But Remus stares at Harry thoughtfully, analyzing his face. Yet before either of them can reply, the flap over the tent's entry way bursts open, flying back to allow this world's Neville into the room. Blood smudges his forearms, dark, already drying. His fingernails are brown with caked mud.

"Madam Pomfrey says Ariana and Aberforth will be just fine," Neville announces, but his expression is grave. "Apparently they've just been knocked out with a powerful sleeping potion. She should have the antidote ready in no time. But we've finished the final head count and Eleanor is missing. Either she's dead, or the Death Eaters have her."

"Shite," swears Sirius, concern flooding his gaunt features. Remus, too, suddenly looks worried.

"How much did she know?" Remus asks, panic seeping into his words.

"Too much," replies Neville.

"Then we had better act fast."

-X-X-X-

Hands slide over bare skin. Pale hands, thin and white as ghosts. Hands with power in their palms. Draco can see the ridges of the bones beneath the flesh, sharp and hard as the person they belong to. He wants to lift those hands to his lips, to trace the line of each long finger with his tongue, but that kind of initiative is not his place. Instead, the hands explore. Not that this path down Draco's chest is uncharted territory anymore. It's been a long time since Draco has been able to turn down such a gesture. Only the action's audience is new. Draco tilts his head back slightly, glancing over at the figure hanging in the corner. The girl isn't much older than Draco himself. If she wasn't a muggleborn, they probably would have been at Hogwarts together. Her hands are bound together above her head. Long brown hair hangs limp before her downturned face, messy and tangled from the struggle. Her eyes are closed, her nose twisted off to the left, broken. Blood drips down her face, a sheen of red striping her features. On her forehead, two large red letters mar the girl's pale skin: a capital M and B. The source of the crimson ooze. Mudblood.

If only she had just talked.

Fingers slide beneath Draco's hips, pressing into the firm muscles of his buttocks. Hard. Enough to leave bruises. But Draco doesn't mind the pain. Almost any amount of pain would be worth the reward he knows is sure to follow. Draco raises his hips up off the bed, holding himself still while a wand tip is pointed at his anus and a spell prepares him for penetration. It's an uncomfortable feeling, cold and slick, but he endures the sensation. It's better than the alternative.

"Flip over," the Dark Lord commands. Draco shivers at the sound of his voice, deep and smooth. He obeys, turning so that he's kneeling facing away from Riddle. Facing the girl. Draco knows why, knows what this little demonstration is really about. The sex between them is never actually about sex. Not for the Dark Lord. This time, Draco is just part of the show, part of breaking this girl down until she tells them every little secret the rebels have ever had. By fucking Draco right in front of her, the Dark Lord is really saying that the girl's existence is so inconsequential that her presence doesn't even matter. She's not really human, has absolutely no real value. She's just part of the background like the dresser in the corner. Only at least the dresser has a use.

Draco glances up at the girl's face. At the sound of the Dark Lord's voice, the girl's eyes have flickered open a crack. Blood dripping down from her forehead clouds her vision. She has to blink several times to clear it. The red slithers from her eyes, crimson tears. Draco's shoulders curl in slightly, concaving his chest, as if to hide behind them. He doesn't want her to look at him like that. Doesn't want her to see.

He never wanted to be a part of this.

Hands guide Draco's hips up, lifting him over Riddle's lap. Draco obediently allows his legs to slide further apart. And then Riddle's hard cock is sliding into him, painful despite the spell. The girl's eyes slip shut once more and Draco is relieved. He doesn't want her to see this. The muscles in Draco's legs clench, lifting him up until he's almost all the way off Riddle's cock, then he allows himself to fall back down again, impaling himself. Gradually, the pain lessens. Repeated friction eases into pleasure. And as Draco's eyes slip shut, he can almost pretend that the girl isn't there, that his lord is just doing this because he truly wants Draco. Almost.

"Moan for me, Draco," commands the Dark Lord, his voice even and unaffected despite their current activity.

_They are alone. The girl isn't there. All that exists is the blackness behind Draco's eyelids. All that matters is the sensation of the other man's erection rubbing against Draco's prostate with each thrust. The girl is not there._

Draco allows his lips to part, groans of pleasure leaking from his throat. Dry lips press against Draco's throat, sharp teeth grazing his flesh. Then a hand slams into Draco's back, shoving him down, face first into the mattress. It continues to hold him there as Riddle increases the pace and force of his thrusts, slamming into Draco so hard it's painful. But that's the least of Draco's concerns. His face is pressed into the mattress, held there immobile and helpless as the sheets fill his nose and mouth, preventing air from entering his lungs. He tries to struggle, tries to show that he can't breathe, that he's going to die if the other man doesn't let him up, but his movements are ignored. The Dark Lord just keeps thrusting into him, brutal and harsh. Uncaring of Draco's pain. Desperately, Draco tries to inhale around the sheets, but the fabric fills every nook and cranny. His head is beginning to feel light and fuzzy, desperation and air depravation clouding his mind. All that exists is his need to breathe. The need consumes him, blocking out all else. And all there is is blackness. Then the man behind him shudders slightly, the ghost of a moan slithering from full lips. He climaxes into Draco, his seed stinging its way into the blond boy. Then finally, the hand on Draco's back withdraws.

Draco shoots backwards, gasping in huge lungfuls of air. Gradually, the aching emptiness in his chest fades as oxygenated blood pumps once more in his veins. He can feel the Dark Lord pulling out of him, can feel the cold trickle of semen running down his thighs, but he doesn't have it in him to care. All that matters is that he's alive.

The Dark Lord steps back, away from Draco, pulling his trousers up over his hips once more and zipping them closed. Ignoring Draco, he crosses the room to stand before their hostage. Hearing him approach, the girl opens her eyes. Seeing that his attention is now on her, she tenses. Earlier, her jaw was clenched, jutted out in determination, but now she lacks the strength for such defiance. Instead, she just watches, fear mingling with the growing indifference of one who knows they won't make it out of this alive.

"Now, girl," says Riddle, an amused smirk twitching up the corners of his mouth, "you have had time to come to terms with the reality of your situation. Tell me what you know, or I will make everything you have suffered thus far merely a shadow of the pain you will experience. Do you understand me? Speak. Now."

Silence. The Dark Lord purses his lips slightly in annoyance. The truth is that the Dark Lord doesn't really need this girl to speak. He could just enter her mind, take the information he seeks from her memories even without her consent. But he wants her to break, wants to see her crumble. There's nothing more satisfying than watching the loyalty and convictions of another melt away beneath the tip of his wand. Tom lifts his wand, pointing it at the girl's chest and Draco quickly shuts his eyes. He doesn't want to see what's going to happen next.

Screams fill the chamber, echoing from the stone walls. And a squelching noise, like something wet falling to the floor. Draco doesn't want to imagine what.

"Speak," says the Dark Lord again. "Speak and I will end this pain." The screams continue, ebbing as their source weakens.

"Speak and this will not have to be how you die," continues Riddle. "Being disemboweled can take hours to kill someone. Long, painful hours. Hours even worse than what you're feeling right now." So that's what that sound was then. For a moment, Draco fears that the girl still won't give in, that she'll resist Riddle even with her intestines spread out over the floor, but then a quavering voice pierces the silence.

"Alright," the girl whispers weakly, and a victorious smile spreads over Tom's handsome features, twisting them into a dark joy.

"Who is the boy?" Voldemort asks, unable to suppress his eagerness. Apprehensively, Draco cracks open one eye, glancing up at the girl's face, carefully, exclusively at the girl's face. Her features are incredibly pale, a sickly, bluish white, but there's fire in her eyes as she speaks, complete and utter conviction.

"He's the one who's going to kill you," the girl says, and there's iron in her words. "He's come here from another world, and he's going to kill you."

A derisive laugh bubbles up in Voldemort's throat, confident and harsh.

"What on earth makes you think that some foolish boy would be able to defeat me?" he asks, still chuckling. The girl's expression doesn't waver.

"Because he already has. Before, in his world. And if he's done it before, he can do it again."

Tom's laugh freezes, the sound curdling in his throat. Pale fingers shoot out, grabbing the girl's jaw in an iron grip. Black eyes bore into the girl's hazel irises, all amusement suddenly gone, replaced by an icy intensity. Draco watches as the girl's expression goes blank, her gaze now distant and far away, forced into her own mind. It's several long minutes before they emerge again. Tom's expression has changed now. His jaw is clenched, dark brows dragged down into a thoughtful frown. Without another word, a jet of fatal green light sinks into the girl's split ribcage. Riddle drops the girl's face, allowing her head to fall, limp, towards her left shoulder.

There's a knock on the door, hurried and urgent. Slowly, Tom turns, still lost in thought.

"Enter," he calls, and the door slams open, Peter Pettigrew's hunched figure bustling into the room. In his outstretched hand is a crisp, white letter.

"It's the rebels, my lord," Pettigrew says, practically shouting in his excitement. "They're requesting a meeting with you, my lord. They want to form an alliance with us against the Youngest Sons."

And suddenly, Pettigrew has all of Voldemort's attention. Tom snatches the letter from Pettigrew's outstretched palm, flipping it open and scanning its contents. Slowly, a smile spreads over his face, a chess player whose opponent has finally made an interesting move in an otherwise dull game.

"Well," he says, "I suppose we had better hear what they have to say. After all, I now have reason to believe that they may finally have something interesting to say. Or rather, someone interesting to say it."

Pettigrew just continues to look thrilled at having good news to deliver to his master, if a little confused, but a shiver runs down Draco's spine, completely unrelated to the cold.

*Author's Note: Too dark? I know this one is pushing it a bit, but I was feeling something a bit dark surrounding Tom to establish his character. My Tom is not going to be any less brutal, cold or calculating than the one in the books. But if this bothers you guys, I can make it more off-scene and merely implied/mentioned or just less detailed. Let me know. Although, really, there won't be much call for this kind of gore again in the story, so maybe there's no real need to worry about it. Also, I was wondering which interests you guys more: Draco struggling to keep Tom's attention when Tom turns to Harry, or Draco meeting Harry and falling for him so Draco and Tom fight over Harry? Please let me know by reviewing with that information and any more feedback you may have. I love to hear from you guys! I hope you liked this chapter! Thanks for reading, and I'll try to get the next chapter up soon! :)*


	6. Chapter 6

Through the Puddles of Time

Chapter Six

*Author's Note: Wow! Thank you all so much for the amazing batch of reviews for the last chapter! It's fabulous that so many of you care enough to post such great reviews. I really appreciate hearing such detailed feedback! The overwhelming majority of you wanted Draco to fall for Harry, but with the awareness that Draco and Tom cannot compete openly for him since Tom would just crush Draco. And based on your feedback I think I've got a plan for Draco that will intrigue all of you. ;) Anyways, I won't give away any more than that. Thanks again, and I hope you enjoy this most recent chapter!*

Harry, Ron and Hermione stand side by side before a perfectly smooth rectangle of white stone. Their expressions are solemn, tears pricking the corners of Hermione's eyes. This is not something they had ever thought they'd have to do, something that feels wrong to its very core. The epitome of disrespect. And yet, it must be done.

The group stands on a small island near the edge of the Hogwarts' Great Lake. In the distance, they can hear the dark waters sloshing against the shore, a soothing, rhythmic sound, like the beating of a heart. Yet this is not a place for life. Dumbledore's tomb looks just as Harry remembers it. Perfect. Other worldly. Everything he once thought the older man was. The white tomb is raised up on an equally white, sloped dais. A few tall, leafless trees surround it on all sides, slender bodies stretching up towards the dark sky above. It's night. The only appropriate time for such events as these. A gibbous moon bathes the island in a pale, silvery light. A light for secrets.

Harry slowly reaches out one hand, stroking the cold stone.

"We're sorry, headmaster," he murmurs. Then he and Ron push, hard. It takes a while of painful shoving to pry the tomb open. The stone lid is impossibly heavy, made from magic to protect the dead from the living. But somehow, it feels wrong to use magic to open it. So Harry, Ron and Hermione push until, slowly, reluctantly, the lid slides back to reveal Albus Dumbledore's peaceful face. His body is perfectly preserved, protected from decay by the magic of the tomb. Harry doesn't know whether this makes doing what he must easier or harder. Clutched in Albus' lined hands is the elder wand, buried with him as Harry had promised. The wand's last intended owner. But now those promises must be broken.

Harry hoists himself up onto the lip of the tomb, swinging his legs over so that he's crouching beside his mentor's limp form. Harry looks down at Albus' unmoving features. His twinkling blue eyes are closed, little lines of crinkled skin shooting out from them. His thick, white brow is relaxed. His bearded lips unworried. Peaceful. This is Harry's Albus. The Albus who had guided him every step of the way towards defeating Voldemort. The Albus who had always believed in him. The Albus Harry had trusted with his very life. Sure, even this version of Dumbledore had not been perfect. He, too, had been tempted by power and by Grindelwald's charm. But still. The idea that this man, this wise, wise man could have turned so dark in another world sits unpleasantly in Harry's stomach, heavy and bitter as lead.

"I'm sorry, professor," Harry whispers again, reaching out to stroke the man's wrinkled cheek. The flesh is soft beneath Harry's fingertips, stolen from rigor mortis' reach. Soft, but cold. "I never wanted to use the elder wand again. I know I said that I would bury it with you so that when I died undefeated, I would be its last owner, but I can't do that just yet. Not anymore. I'm sorry for breaking into your tomb, but I think if you were here, you'd understand." Harry pauses for a moment, allowing silence to say what he can't. Then he slips the elder wand out from between Albus' frozen fingers.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs again, and hops from the tomb. Hermione flicks her wand, covering the tomb once more in a layer of glimmering stone.

"Well, that's all of 'em," says Ron, looking down at the elder wand in Harry's hand. They already found the resurrection stone in the woods. It had taken a few hours of scouring the bushes on hands and knees, but eventually Hermione had found the thing tucked between a set of tree roots.

"Yeah," agrees Harry, turning the wand over between his fingers. He has everything he needs now. Everything that could possibly help him defeat the one man he has always respected. And yet, still, even with an unbeatable wand, it still feels so impossible, so ridiculous. How can he fight a man with Albus' face? How can he kill a man he loved, whom he fought so hard here to save? Impossible.

"Come on," says Hermione, laying a knowing hand comfortingly on Harry's shoulder. "We should get back to the other world. You need to prepare for the meeting with Voldemort."

"True," says Harry, making a face. "Can't forget that."

"I still can't believe it," says Ron, frowning back over his shoulder at Dumbledore's final resting place. "Allying against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to fight Dumbledore! I mean, Dumbledore! Of all people! That's bloody ridiculous, that is."

"Don't I know it," Harry agrees.

-X-X-X-

Fleur de Lys. Probably not the first place Harry would have chosen to meet with the most powerful dark wizard of all time. It's too beautiful, too perfect to be marred. The French restaurant spans the entire top floor of one of London's tallest buildings. Huge marble columns stretch up towards an arched glass ceiling, a touch of old-fashioned fancy in such a modern skyscraper. But what are really spectacular about the restaurant are the extensive vines of white flowers that cover every surface. They curl up over the marble, creeping tendrils reaching out to spread across the ceiling as well. Tiny golden lights twinkle between the blossoms, glittering like stars. The whole place looks like the ballroom in a fairy tale. Only it isn't prince charming Harry is here to meet. Harry sits at one of the restaurant's numerous white clothed tables. It's a small table. Intimate. A table for two. And he's waiting.

He doesn't have to wait long.

"So," says a smooth, deceptively pleasant voice, "you're the boy who killed the other me."

Harry jumps to his feet, spinning around hurriedly to face the owner of said voice. Tom watches him with amusement, a crooked smile tugging gently at his lips. There's no anger in his face, no fury, no fear. Just a polite interest, bland and ordinary as porridge. The face of a man who knows the importance of being able to conceal his true emotions.

"I admit," continues Tom, "I thought you would be taller."

Harry's jaw clenches, his lips pressing together to form a thin line, but he forces himself not to retort. He can feel Tom's eyes boring into him, burning little paths across Harry's face as Tom's gaze bounces around Harry's features. Memorizing. Studying. Pale hands reach out, grabbing the slender, black frames of Harry's glasses and tugging them free.

"You look better without your glasses," comments Tom. Harry blinks up at the blurry flesh colored blob in front of him.

"What a coincidence," he says, his self-control finally wavering, "so do you." Suddenly, the hold on Harry's frames is tight, squeezing them dangerously.

"Normally someone who said that to me would be dead by now," says Tom. His voice is flat and controlled, as calm as if he were merely commenting on the weather. But Harry can feel the threat in the words, the anger building beneath them.

"Yeah, well," replies Harry, "you never were able to kill me before, were you? I see no reason why that should suddenly change now." He reaches out, groping for the pale white blob of Tom's hand. The calloused pads of his fingers slide along smooth flesh, gliding over the curves of Tom's bony knuckles, then close on Harry's spectacles, putting them back on his face. Suddenly, Tom's expression is clear once more, no longer just swirls of shadow and light. For a moment, Harry glimpses something in Tom's expression. Interest, maybe. Calculation. Then Tom's face is a polite mask once more. He turns away from Harry, crossing the table to the vacant chair on its other side.

"You, however, suffered no such qualms," observes Tom as, in one smooth motion, he pulls the chair out, swirls into it, and crosses one ankle casually over the other. Elegance itself. Taking the cue, Harry plops down into his chair, too, decidedly less elegantly.

"I did what I had to," says Harry. "You left me no choice."

A knowing smirk grazes Tom's features, a dark twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

"Really, now?" Tom says, his smile growing ever so slightly. "It seems to me that there are always choices."

Silence. The question just hangs there, floating in the air unaddressed. But Tom can tell that it's not for a lack of response. He can see the words building up on the other boy's tongue, trying to force their way out behind tight lips. But Harry doesn't let them. Even without them, though, Tom can gleam some of their meaning from the other boy's face. Thick, straight brows furrowed together. Eyes hard, determined. Teeth clenched together in defiance. Yet there's no hatred, no fury, only resignation. Maybe even, perhaps, a smidge of guilt. Interesting.

Something stirs in Tom's chest, like a snake uncurling to stretch out beneath the sun's warm rays. There's a connection here, a frisson of something Tom can't quite identify. Something unprecedented.

"What happened back in the warehouse between our wands?" Tom asks suddenly. The question has been eating away at him, curiosity bubbling up into frustration at his lack of any possible explanation.

Green eyes flicker back and forth, focusing on each of Tom's eyes in turn. A frown. A pursing of lips. Then: "Our wands are connected," Harry explains. "Twin cores, feathers taken from the same phoenix. They recognize each other. And when our spells met, it called up the spells you had once cast, and the spirits of those who were killed by them."

The truth. Tom can tell, can see it in the other boy's grim features. This is no lie.

"Twins, you say?" replies Tom, lips pursing into an amused smirk. "Well, isn't that curious? And yet we seem so different, you and I. The Golden boy and the Dark Lord. How interesting."

Something flashes across Harry's face. Something raw. Something worried. Then, in seconds, it's gone, replaced by cold disgust.

"This isn't what I came here to talk about," Harry says sharply, his voice flat and low, anger simmering beneath the calm words.

"Yes, of course," agrees Tom amiably, "the proposed alliance. I would be interested to hear your terms." Harry relaxes slightly, relieved to be moving on to more comfortable subject matter.

"Our proposal is simple," he says. "Neither of our groups is powerful enough to take down the Youngest Sons on our own. We may have different reasons for wanting the Youngest Sons out of the picture, but our goals are the same: take them out with minimal damage to ourselves. It seems to me that the best way to achieve that is to work together. An agreement between both our groups to cease harming one another and work together to strike against Albus and Grindelwald."

"And why should I think that a truce with your pathetically tiny army would help me take down the Youngest Sons?" asks Tom, tilting his head to rest his cheek quizzically in one hand. "Seems to me like I would be the one doing you a favor, not the other way round."

"Let's be real here," says Harry, leaning forwards in his seat. "You will never be able to defeat Albus on your own. Never." A muscle flickers in Tom's chiseled jaw, fury burning in his eyes. But he remains in his relaxed position, one leg crossed over the other, leaning back comfortably in his seat.

"I am the most powerful dark wizard of all time," Tom snaps, his words like whips cracking across the table towards Harry's determined face. "If I really wanted Albus Dumbledore dead, he would be. He wouldn't even stand a chance. I merely choose to tolerate him since he has been smart enough to leave my territory alone."

"Bollocks," says Harry. "Don't think you can fool me, Riddle. I'm not like those idiots you surround yourself with, the ones who worship you blindly, completely oblivious to your weaknesses. I know you, Riddle. I know where you came from, have seen the orphanage you grew up in, the children whose pets you killed and tortured with your magic so that you could feel powerful. I know who your parents are, that your father left you and your mother like rubbish. I know that he was a muggle, too, that the pureblood status you flaunt so proudly is just a bunch of lies. And most importantly, I know that you have always been afraid of Albus. In my world you were never able to defeat him. Never. I see no reason why that would change here."

At Harry's words, all amusement drains from Tom's pale face. Dark eyes widen, exposing thin red veins flickering out from Tom's irises like sunbursts. His mouth contorts, lips curled up into a snarl of pure fury. Nostrils flare. Then, slowly, his mask of calm is constructed once more.

"It sounds like there are a lot of things you think you know, Potter," says Tom, his voice not quite managing to reach the light and airy tones of before. "And yet you speak of Albus Dumbledore in the past tense. Clearly someone managed to beat him. And if not me, then who? Was it you again, Potter? First me and then him? Or was it the other way around? Such a murderous boy for someone who acts so high and mighty."

"No!" exclaims Harry, horror and rage mingling in his features. "I never would have done anything like that! In my world Albus was my mentor, my friend even. I never would have hurt him. Albus died protecting Hogwarts and its students like the hero and headmaster he was. And he died on his own terms."

"Yes, yes," snaps Tom with a stiff, empty smile, "but someone had to have dealt the final blow. Who was it? I'm just dying to know."

Harry's face is cold, eyes hard, brows set. But his emotions manage to wriggle their way out anyways. Sadness, guilt, anger, remorse. Tom watches carefully, taking it all in and filing it away for later consideration.

"It doesn't matter," Harry finally says. "What matters is that it wasn't you the, and it won't be you now."

"If you think I'd be so helpless against Dumbledore, why is it that you're here, asking for my help?" asks Tom, spitting the words out through tight lips.

"Gindelwald," says Harry. "I can't take on both at once. I can handle Albus for you, but in return I need you to kill Grindelwald and as many of their men as you can. It's a good opportunity. You'd never be able to do it on your own. Neither of us could. But together, we stand a very good chance of… eliminating the competition."

"And his territory?" Tom asks.

"All yours," says Harry. "It holds no interest for us."

"I see," says Tom. He studies Harry's face, calculating. "You really think you can beat Albus Dumbledore?"

"Yes," replies Harry. His voice is firm, full of conviction. "I can. I have a plan. If you agree to our terms, I can deliver on our end, I promise."

"And what, pray tell, is this plan?" asks Tom, intrigued despite himself.

"None of your business," says Harry. "Just know that it's a good one, one I'm clearly willing to bet my life on."

Two eyes stare at each other across the table, each sizing up the other. And still, there's something in Tom's chest, something that wriggles strangely under the other boy's gaze. A connection. Destiny itching. And then—

"Can I start you gentlemen off with anything?" asks a smiling waiter. He's wearing a white button down shirt and sharp black vest. In his hands he holds a glossy black notebook, a golden pen at the ready. His smile wilts as two glares turn on him.

"We're going to need another minute," says Harry. The waiter, still feeling Tom's stare boring into him, nods quickly, his saliva suddenly thick as sludge in his throat.

"Of course, sir," he says hurriedly, turning on his polished heels and scampering away like a mouse who's just realized the big hunk of cheese he's been eyeing is clenched in the iron jaws of a mousetrap. Tom's glare follows.

"So," asks Harry, "Do we have an agreement then?"

Dark brown eyes flicker back to Harry's face. A pale hand reaches out, hovering above the table's crisp white drapery.

"Truce," declares Tom. Harry eyes the hand warily, as if inspecting it for a trap, then takes it in his own.

"Truce," he agrees. He goes to pull his hand away, but Tom's grasp tightens, fingers clenching around his palm. He pulls, jolting Harry forwards across the table and knocking the empty wineglasses and silverware to the floor. The waiter smartly decides not to notice. Suddenly, Tom is no longer lounging back in his seat, but is propped forwards, his face mere inches from Harry's own. The hand not holding Harry's reaches up, slender fingers stroking Harry's cheek gently, mapping out his features.

"Did you enjoy it, Potter?" murmurs Tom, his grip tightening painfully on Harry's jaw. "When you killed me. Did it feel good?" Tom's fingers slide down, skimming Harry's stubbly face to press hard into his lower lip. A slight bunching of muscles is the only warning Tom gets. Harry throws himself backwards, tugging his hand free in one explosion of movement. He stands on the other side of the table, fists clenched at his side, back straight and defiant.

"No," he says. His voice is firm, too hard for a lie to wriggle its way in. For a moment, Harry and Tom just stare at each other, then Harry dips his head ever so slightly and turns on his heel, calling back over his shoulder: "We'll send an owl with the details for the joint invasion."

Tom leans back in his chair once more, watching Harry's bristling figure storm away. Any sign of anger has melted from his handsome face, replaced by a dark amusement.

"I look forward to your correspondence," he shouts after Harry's retreating form. Perfectly pleasant. The epitome of polite. As Harry shoves open the restaurant's main doors and vanishes from sight, Tom raises his hand to his face, running the fingertip he had pressed so sharply against Harry's mouth along his own bottom lip. The lip flattens and stretches beneath his finger, curling up into a wide grin. Finally, in a long time of being blindly followed by a horde of power-hungry purebloods, Tom has found someone worth his attention. Someone with power of their own, not just looking to gain glory from Tom's. Someone fun.

Tom snaps his fingers, summoning the quaking waiter to his side.

"Clean up this mess," he commands, not even glancing in the unfortunate boy's direction. "And get me a glass of your finest Cabernet Sauvignon. I'm celebrating."

The waiter nods, scooping up the fallen dishware before putting a safe distance between himself and the table's occupant. The look in the man's eyes had been almost manic, a cruel joy. As he places the man's order with the bartender, the waiter can't help a little shudder, pity filling him for whatever poor sap is the subject of that look.

*Author's Note: So, the alliance is set. How long it will last, well, it is an alliance with a pretty slippery group. I hope you guys like this most recent installation! The relationship between Harry and Tom will be developing quite a bit from here on out. Please review with any feedback or requests you may have! I love hearing from you guys. You have no idea how happy it made me to get such an outpouring of reviews for the last chapter! Really, it makes my day. Thanks for reading, you guys! Until next time!*


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